


Personaborne

by AlasPoorYorcake



Category: Who Killed Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bring Your Own Shipping Goggles; I'll Only Hint, Fan theories, Headcanon Dump Disguised With Plot, Heavy Plot, Possible Character Death, longfic, p a i n
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasPoorYorcake/pseuds/AlasPoorYorcake
Summary: The floor trembles.The Host gets a hold of the script and finds something sinister, something that will force Mark's egos to do the impossible: work together. Mark, their tether to the real world, is dying, and there's only one being that can save him. Quite frankly, Darkiplier has other ideas. Several, in fact.One of them just happens to involve a certain green-haired lunatic, a blue-tinted spirit, and his own penchant for perpetuating chaos...





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, this is bound to be fun! Even if this fic only caters to a small group of people, it's essentially an infodump, self-indulgence thing. Longfic, plot-heavy, headcanon-heavy, and ship-free (unless you have a shiny pair of shipper goggles to wear). Pretty much like every other single unfinished fanfiction sitting on my computer.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!

* * *

The floor trembles.

The lights below the front lip of the stage flicker, the ones in the catwalk bursting in clipped succession. The electronic sign behind the audience- Hire My Ass!- sways from two lengths of string tied to the ceiling. For a heartbeat, the room is swamped with darkness. When the lights come back up, the sign is gone.

“D-Did you feel that?” The newest contestant- Greg? George? Glickenstein?- whispers, his eyes wide.

The floor shakes again and he fumbles sideways, gripping his score podium, but the aftershock lasts only a few moments. G-man turns to the other two contestants and balks at their blank expressions. He waves a hand in their faces. Neither of them acknowledge him. The gameshow host appears to be afflicted in the same way, until-

“Oh, flubbernucks.” He abruptly reanimates. His speech cards hit the floor with a maddening crack, and he turns so fast his glasses almost take the same fate. The ceiling suddenly becomes his object of exasperation. “What could _you_ possibly want at a time like this?”

The camera shifts to an eagle-eye perspective, casting the host into the illusion of a man pleading to a nonexistent god.

“Not again,” Bim Trimmer whines. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

The scenery he gestures toward freezes in time. The host exhales between his teeth. Reality bends around him as he stoops to gather his cards.

Despite this childish routine, anxiety hugs his skin like latex. Impromptu meetings rarely occur, and a personal summons like this is tantamount to a declaration of suicide. Nothing of this nature had happened to Bim for a long time, and for a moment he contemplates indulging in the summons…

“Alright, alright, I’m coming, you don’t have to get all melodramatic.” Bim mumbles to himself and stands, shoulders overhanging his toes.

Then, as if by the crack of a soundless whip, he changes. Back ramrod straight, suit jacket unwrinkled, grin wide and on the edge of genuine. The scene unfreezes with a crisp snap of his fingers, and he addresses his audience with the cordiality of close friends.

“Well, then, that’s all we’ve got for you tonight, folks! Thank you for joining us on… Hire-My-Ass!” The audience chants the title with him exuberantly, cheering and howling for Bim’s bows as the lights dim.

His audience disappears instantly, but the facade he has built takes longer to break. One spotlight remains on the host, who basks in the unnatural light. Patience is a virtue, he thinks, one with a breaking point.

Satisfied, he clicks his fingers again, and the illusion dissipates. Reality blinks, and suddenly Bim stands in a long hallway, closing the door to his left. The Host counts the seconds that pass by as they stall by the room.

“Right, old man, lead the way.” They begin walking down the familiar corridor, and Bim presents his perfect rows of teeth in a stiff smile. “By the way, have I ever told you how much I hate that _stupid_ moniker of yours?”

Bim Trimmer is a man of image. He values his reputation above his good looks, and those above everything else. Any insignificant blight against his ego translates to a declaration of war.

“Or how I loathe your psychoanalysis?” Bim’s jaw works hard to chew the words he keeps to himself. He squints at the Host’s blindfold. “Besides, you practically monopolized my industry, taking on that name. It should be a federal offense.”

The Host does not respond directly, instead surrendering the rest of their trek to silence. Bim’s footsteps counter the Host’s intent, crashing on the floorboards with the beat of his breaths. In contrast, the Host’s footsteps are silent, lacking a tempo.

The hallway tethers most of the house together, acting as a vein to transport its residents. In times of almost companionable silence such as these, the Host can’t help but listen for the heartbeat.

“You _never_ shut up, do you?” Bim speaks in a mixture of irritation and amusement.

A few moments later, they arrive at their destination. Bim does not hesitate to enter the conference room without acknowledging the Host, who remains in the hallway. He stays until the door hinges finish hissing and the lock clicks.

He disappears without a sound.

* * *

 The floor trembles.

The rattle of metal against metal clangs through the room. Shelves shiver on the left wall, and various surgical utensils bounce off of their hooks. The operating room is suitably sanitary for its purpose, though by the wall of metal cabinets to the left, it appears to double as a morgue. The shaking lasts a good minute, barring the aftershocks.

“Shut up, Nurse!” A surgeon snaps to his mute assistant, who immediately passes him a scalpel. Metal meeting bloody gloves creates an unpleasant squelching sound. “We’re gonna lose him again, and it’s gonna be all your damn fault!”

The lights suddenly dim, sourceless spotlights caressing the surgeon’s affixed expression. He brings the scalpel down gently on his patient, who lies on a metal slab foreshadowing his fate. Per cue, as soon as the metal enters his body, the operatee begins to convulse. Limbs soar through the air, a thick gurgling sound pervading the room as blood moves up the patient’s trachea to block his screams.

The doctor makes a noise akin to a B movie scream, and instinctively reaches over the patient to punch his assistant, whose arm then rises above the edge of the table, butcher knife in hand. Surging forward for the knife, the surgeon grips the handle tightly and brings the blade down fast and quick. 

His patient slowly falls still until only the sound of panting is left to combat the silence. The doctor’s knife flies to the ground, and he faces the corpse, gloves squelching into fists.

“Fuck,” he says succinctly, then to his unconscious assistant around the table: “This was your fault, Nurse.”

The Nurse has neither the faculty nor the time to respond. Instead, attention returns to the corpse, who suddenly sits up straight and begins to pile his organs back into his midsection out of order. He holds the y-incision skin flaps together like the edges of a doggy bag, and makes his way to the nearest empty cold chamber.

“Oh, for- you again! Look, I appreciate the help, but I  _ am _ a doctor. I can clean up after myself.” Dr. Iplier snaps his latex gloves off, tossing them onto the floor.

Gradually, the scenery around them starts to disappear. The tile beneath their feet loses color and texture, followed by the ceiling and walls. The surgeon’s illusion washes away like watercolor paint under a kitchen sink. His assistant is the last to go.

“I’m not finished yet.” Dr. Iplier clicks his fingers, and new scenery forms around them. A hospital hallway, complete with bustling nurses and buzzing all-calls over the intercom. Dr. Iplier reaches for a door, number 214. “I don’t doubt you took the others out of their illusions before their times, but I’ve had mine prescribed for months. I can’t exactly let it expire, can I?”

Dr. Iplier often speaks in clinical metaphors, though they are undeniably accurate. As he is weaker than other personas, the doctor must resort to a heavier dosage of illusions than most to sustain his existence. 

And, of course, regardless of the  _ import _ of any kind of interruption, Dr. Iplier must get his fix above all else.

“Boastful bastard,” the doctor mutters, wrenching the door open. “Shut up and get in there.”

The room is furnished lightly, a few chairs and tables indicating an acknowledgement of guests. The hospital bed lies empty in the middle of the room, the impression of a person still wrinkled into the cloth on the top. Above the headboard hangs a painting of a man with a blindfold kicking a puppy. 

In retrospect, Dr. Iplier  _ is _ a doctor; it only follows that his illusions-- and subtle hints-- would be meticulously crafted. Though he would deny it with any audience, the Host finds the painting particularly amusing.

The family that suddenly stands before them is likewise meticulously crafted. Under the surface, each person has their own backstories, their own characteristics. The mother is frail, yet likely to throttle whoever bears bad news. The sister, tempered and gentle, is a stark contrast to the brother, whose contorted expression masks his concern.

The Host considers the scene and contemplates a possibility. Perhaps the real reason Dr. Iplier requires several illusions per day is because of how much energy he expends to make them.

“Hello. My name is Dr. Iplier.” The doctor extends a hand to each person, nodding solemnly down the line. He rests a suddenly-materialized clipboard against his thigh and sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re dying.”

The tumult that follows is immediate and abrupt, something worse than macabre. The colors in the room drain into sepia tone, the dredges creating an idyllic yet sickly impression. The family begins to weep, their lost relative suddenly forgotten as their own mortality literally sucks the life from their forms.

Dr. Iplier, by contrast, heaves a contented sigh. He seems to drink in the air with relish, closing his eyes and taking in the moment in a manner suitable for hospital soap operas. By the time he is finished, the entire room is in black and white, barring Dr. Iplier and the Host himself. The family curls into themselves and falls to their knees.

The Host tilts his head, making a show of turning to exit. Dr. Iplier appears to receive the message, as his blissful expression slides to the floor with an audible slap. He turns to the Host with a glare.

“I don’t burst into your illusions telling you how to run things-- I expect the same courtesy,” the doctor grinds his teeth, fuming. “Now stand there, shut up, and let me finish.”

He does. 

The Host has never understood how Dr. Iplier takes pleasure from this type of illusion, but he is nothing if not indulgent. In fact, he has become accustomed to morbidity from a majority of Mark’s personas, and finds himself appreciating the concept through his own illusions. Though, the Host must admit, he tends to toy with his subject’s minds far longer than the good doctor… 

“I hope someday I get enough courage to shove that blindfold down your throat,” Dr. Iplier grunted, and with a snap, they were standing in a different hallway-- older, more powerful. Far more familiar.

“Yes, yes, I heard you describing it outside as you escorted Bim out.” Dr. Iplier pulled his door shut with a click, the hospital handle tainted with his fingerprints. He started off down the corridor and tossed over his shoulder, “I’ll find my own way. Go canoodle with some other persona.”

The Host did not hesitate to take this direction. He swiveled on his heels, then disappeared with a soft, audible pop.

He has a few others to gather before he will be finished.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

 

* * *

 

The floor trembles.

“Oh god, oh god, earthquake! Okay, Google, what do I do?”

“Your schedule for the day is relatively full for a lazy disappointment like you. At one p.m., you are required to attend the Unofficial Gamer’s Gala. I can set an event ahead of time to remind you to prepare. Will three hours be enough time to get your shit together?”

The man with the camera trembles, perhaps harder than the floor. His belongings tremble around him, breakables shattering and adding to the rumbling crescendo of noise.

“No, no, I don’t need- just tell me about the earthquakes!”

“Natural events such as volcanic eruptions and meteor impacts can cause earthquakes, but the majority of naturally-occurring earthquakes are triggered by movement of the earth's plates. The earth’s surface consists of 20 constantly moving plates. They also happen to be incredibly dangerous to humanity, and therefore a possible method of extermination.”

“What, earthquakes? … Google, did you do this?”

The Host politely requests Googleplier’s presence. The Host makes sure to remind the software that his previous update had interfered with the last meeting. If he plans to make peace with-

“Acknowledged, Host. Further persuasion is unnecessary. I will be along shortly.”

The Host recognizes Googleplier’s ability to arrive at the conference room by himself. However, time is scarce and moving quickly enough to inhibit damage control with each passing moment. Shifting through code-

“Will take less time than for the Host to retrieve the other two requested personnel. I will arrive second to last.”

…The Host acqueises, then disappears with an acrid taste in his mouth. Illusion wading is strenuous on his abilities, and he longs for the sweet relief of a game to soothe the emotions his duties have riled in him.

He moves on.

* * *

The floor-

“Woah, hold on there, hot wheels, I’m not quite finished here, yet.” The mustache twitches in the darkness, glowing like a beacon. “So, tell me, Santa, what exactly prompted this sudden sleigh-ing of children across the globe?”

“I- I never meant to hurt anybody, but my elves, they- ”

“A murderer and slave-owner? My, my, how the mighty have fallen- down our chimneys!”

The Host-

“Oh, my apologies, we’re not taking interruptions at this point.” The mustache warbles. “Now, back to you, Satan- whoops! That’s _certainly_ not what I meant to say. My, was that your original intention when you picked your name?”

“Wha- to be confused with _Satan_?”

“And there it is, folks, you heard it here first! The famous Santa of Claus admitting murder, slavery, and satanism!”

“Hey- no, I-!”

“Remember kids, don’t fall into the celebrity trap- the only light you’ll see at the end of the tunnel will be heroin overdose and child molestation convictions!”

“Wait a minute, you can’t even-”

“That’s all the time we have for today, I’m afraid, so why don’t we give a huge hand to Satan Claws, our very special guest star tonight! Thanks for coming, _Snot_ -an, we’d love to have you back.”

The illusion finally dissolves, after several minutes of patient waiting by the Host, who assumes that his presence is enough to inform the colonel-

“I’m afraid you’re narrating incorrectly, old friend. How rude of you. I haven’t been in the army in a _very_ long time.” His voice changes dramatically as the lights clicked on and his expression becomes visible. “But hey, bygones be gone, right? Buh-bye! So let’s cut to the chase.”

The Host knows where this is going.

“I’m sure you do: I’m skipping this meeting. I’ve simply got too much on my hands- in fact, I have another interview starting in five minutes, and my makeup crew still isn’t ready. Give the family my regards, alright friend?”

The Host insists the matter is serious.

“Yes, well so is mine. So, if you could kindly shuffle off.”

Wilford Warfstache has felt the tremors.

“Of course I felt your little tricks, Host, I know everything that goes on in this little pocket universe of ours. Hell, I’ve even seen your personal illusions from time to time, you sly dog-”

The floor’s trembling was not of the Host’s design.

“...What, you mean you didn’t mean to do it?” Warfstache chuckles. “It’s alright, old chap-”

Nor was it of the Host’s origin.

“Ah, so somebody’s been fiddling somewhere they shouldn’t’ve been, huh?” Warfstache strokes his pink hair and grins widely. “I suppose then it was… right for you to have called this to my attention. We’ll be taking the expressway, will we?”

The Host’s relief was palpable in the void’s atmosphere. With silent agreement, the Host transported them both to the cabinet meeting room. Googleplier had appeared to make the trip safely and reliably- he was, indeed, second to last to arrive.

The Host took care to leave as quickly as possible.

* * *

The floor trembles.

“Oh-!”

“What in heaven’s name was _that_?”

“My goodness, how startling- I almost spilled my wine-”

The last individual is unusually difficult to locate. A sea of people slosh through the small room, dressed elegantly and equipped with their finest manners. It will be a challenge for the Host to find him.

Minutes pass until the Host recognizes the gradual changes to the scenery. The walls begin to peel, wallpaper curling back like ribbon and dripping crimson. The ceiling, once a beautiful mural of 18th century France, cracks and flakes like dry, ashy skin.

Darkiplier is well-known for his dramatics, especially during his evening practices.

The illusion is soon dissipated in an avalanche and tsunami of leathery skin and pooling blood. All that remains are people, a select few from the crowd, who form a circle around the Host’s objective.

The Host enjoys visiting Darkiplier’s realm, as infrequent as the occasions come. Not only are his illusions captivating, but Darkiplier has a unique charm that allows him to take almost any situation in stride. Not that the Host would dare tamper with the other persona’s illusions.

“I certainly hope not,”

The saccadic entity addresses the Host in a murmur, his attention otherwise entrapped by his kneeling guests. He speaks to them in a loving, caressing whisper.

“A shame, for our time to be cut so short. This is more toys than I’ve been allotted in a very, _very_ long time.”

With a snap of his fingers, they are banished in a brief spray of blood. The void now surrounding them acts as a canvas, displaying their last moments on the floor like a grotesque self-portrait. The subject of the painting turns to the camera and clasps his hands behind his back.

“Shall we be off?”

The Host transports them to the cabinet meeting room faster than his next breath. Darkiplier takes his seat at one head of the table, while the Host takes the chair just to the right of him.

Wilford, taking the other head of the table, is the first to speak, as brash as his manners are. “Well, then, Host, as this impromptu meeting was all your idea, I suggest you explain why you dropped us all in here unscheduled. And make it snappy.”

The Host takes a breath, pausing to stand. Whether out of dramatic effect or to cinch the obvious importance of what he is about to say, the Host acknowledges every persona in the room before speaking.

…We are all dying.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

One thing Darkiplier has learned over the years of watching various personas cycle through Mark is that no persona can stand chaos if they didn’t create it themselves. Personally, Dark suspects it is Mark’s form of self-retribution for suppressing his relentless desires for control. Whatever the cause, at the first sign of chaos, it is as if an itch forces each of them to try to claim the chaos. Make it their own.

Thankfully, if there is one skill Dark is proud of honing over the years, it is the ability to shut out his own thoughts and clamp his mouth closed.

Dark peers over at the Host while trying to keep his own form contained. He can feel each glitch, each pull to scream and tear and break, and suppresses them with difficulty. He focuses on the pink blindfold and finds reality easier to hold onto.

...glances over, while Googleplier’s fans whirr above all other voices in an attempt to catch attention; this persuasion is hindered, however, by the irritating trills exploding from Bim Trimmer, causing Warfstache to rub the tip of a pinkie in his left ear…

“It’s good to see you enjoying yourself for once, Host. _//_ _I can give you all the chaos you want //_ It’s not often you display your manipulation like this so clearly. I can’t help but wonder if your own news has triggered this development.”

Unsurprisingly enough, Darkiplier’s influence draws the attention of the room, and soon the chaos fades to an endurable limit, the itch contained and glitches minimal.

We are all dying, the Host repeats, as if trying to restore the calamity.

“Quit stealing my line!” Dr. Iplier folds his arms. “Cryptic asshole.”

“Shut up now, Doctor. And you, blind boy, quit deflecting. We’re dying, and that’s all well and good, but what do you  _ mean _ , man?” Warfstache exclaims, brandishing a gun loosely between his fingers. “Why would we be dying now?”

“And how?” Bim slides a hand through his hair. “It took years for me to cultivate the perfect haircut; I don’t want it ruined by something trying to kill me.”

“The Host cannot speak when he must narrate trivial banter,” Googleplier whirrs out of the side of his mouth. “The most recommended suggestion is to  _ shut up _ .”

Everyone abruptly takes his advice, and soon the Host realizes that the time for explanations had arrived. Evidently, however, he is not inclined to make the process easy.

Personas are technically separate entities from the parent entity which we inhabit- as such, we have some degree of dimension- or at least illusion- of independent thought.

“Bull _ shit _ ,” Warfstache slams his revolver down on the conference table, pulling everyone’s attention to him. He coughs. “I have no idea what the hell you just said.”

“Please continue,” Dark gestures.

Independent thought, however, is contained in the vessel where such thought exists. In this way, personas are attached- or, more accurately, restricted- to the parent mind hosting their essences, as well as susceptible to any influences brought onto the parent mind.

“You’re saying there’s something wrong with Mark,” Dr. Iplier translates. “Something bad enough to affect us.”

“What?” Bim’s expression briefly emulates a yogurt swirl. “How the hell did you get  _ that _ out of… whatever the hell he just said?” 

“I’m a doctor, in case you haven’t noticed. Fancy-speak is in my job description.”

“Chew corks, you two, I’ll set this straight,” Warfstache grouses, squinting suspiciously across the table. “Even if the bad biz with Mark is true, how are we expected to believe that we’ll be affected by… whatever it is?”

The Host has read ahead in the script.

The room pitches silence for a beat before exploding into noise, objections and outcries racking the tension up several notches.

“You did  _ what _ ?!”

“Oh, for god’s sake...”

“What  _ idiotic- _ ”

“Perhaps if we could  _ listen _ while Host explains-  _ // explain  _ **_now_ ** _ , every goddamn detail, and if he leaves anything out- // _ -himself,” Darkiplier finishes, clawing the top of the table to pencil shavings to stop his glitching fingers from tearing at his hair. Once the room quiets again, he waves politely for the Host to continue.

The Host has read ahead. Or skimmed, rather, since the writing became rather dry in the middle, due to the Host’s absence and consequent inability to narrate.

The Host pauses, but no one speaks- the implication glues their jaws shut: whatever would kill them off in the future would take the Host first. 

“No wonder he rushed to call an unscheduled meeting,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, fingers twitching for his prescription pad. “Fixing this as soon as possible may spare him.”

“Self-consumed as usual, then,” Bim picks at his nails. Meanwhile, the Host continues.

The Host has been to the last page. He has seen the dreamscape crumble like stale bread. He has seen planets shrink and stars refuse to exist. He has taken off his blindfold and seen the end of the universe.

Nothing immediately follows this revelation, drowning the room in thick silence. 

Then, “Well shit. I bet you stood there and laughed at it, ya gigantic loon,” Warfstache shatters the stunned atmosphere with a chortle. The dismayed expressions around him do not deter him. “What? You’re actually gonna believe this horsecrap?”

“...The Host has rarely been wrong,” Dr. Iplier side-eyes the blindfolded narrator. “For that same guy- who doesn’t even  _ have _ eyes- to say he saw the end of all things… Look, I trust all members of my staff implicitly.”

“I have agree with the good Doctor, here,” Bim straightens his tie. “Much as I’d rather shove him in the Grinder, he makes a good point. Besides, it’s no good ignoring a potentially fatal problem, fake or not.”

“I concur with the previous sentiments. Although trust is a human concept and therefore inherently flawed,” Googleplier intones, “previous evidence suggests the Host has never lied, expressed human qualities, nor engaged in any form of comedy. Therefore it must be concluded that he speaks the truth. Our deaths are imminent.”

“You- what! You’ve got to be joking!” Warfstache cackles, crazed. “You honestly believe  _ him _ on this? The man who takes the scraps Mark gives him and hunts them like wild animals- like food! He’s practically a damned  _ savage _ ! C’mon- Dark, I know you’ve gotta be with me on this one! Whaddaya say, buddy? …Old Pal?”

Darkiplier gives no response.

“Uhh, is he okay?” 

Bim waves a hand in front of Dark’s face, to no effect. “Looks like a perfect case of stage-fright to me. Should we try the grinder?”

Darkiplier simply sits, motionless, palms facing down and glare pinned at the center of the table. An uncomfortable silence settles between them, and Warfstache grips his revolver tightly. He gestures at Dr. Iplier to check him out, while Bim watches carefully.

Darkiplier is attempting to intrude Markiplier’s mind for information and requires intense concentration- disturbances are inadvisable, the Host blurts out suddenly, startling the whole room.

“Jeez, warn a guy sooner next time,” Dr. Iplier sulks back to his seat.

“Trying to take over Mark while he’s still awake- and without a medium? That’s dangerous,” Bim frowns.

But Warfstache laughs heartily. “Nahh, I wouldn’t worry about him. Knowing him, he’s probably tried it before.”

“Correct. I have previously encountered Darkiplier in a state such as this, presumably practicing for an excursion of this manner. He reported attempting to find weaknesses in Mark’s barriers by scoping out his mind. A strategic and logical pastime.”

“What? You mean he’s done this before?” Dr. Iplier erupts, pinning Darkiplier with his gaze. “He’s been trying to take over Mark all by himself?”

Darkiplier has been attempting to overtake Mark before all other personas were settled, with the sole exception of Wilford Warfstache.

“No,” Warfstache drawls, staring at Darkiplier with an unidentifiable expression, though he gives the impression he is speaking to the room. “I came very soon after, but Dark was still the first one to take root. In a way, his birth spawned my own.”

Darkiplier then comes to life with a shudder, twitching and glitching. It is a long moment before he is able to compose himself, still staring at the table. He leans back in his chair and murmurs to the silence, “The Host isn’t lying.”

“Oh, well what else should I have expected. What, you disappear inside your head, come back looking spaced out, and then demand us-”

“Mark is dying.  _ // I’ve demanded nothing of you yet // _ Surely you can comprehend what that means for us?” Darkiplier‘s glitches pierce the stunned silence with screams. “Mark doesn’t know about it yet  _ // doesn’t need to know, no one must tell him,  _ **_don’t tell him_ ** _ // _ but he’ll catch on soon enough. And when he does, all we can hope is that he knows how to fix it.”

Dr. Iplier sighs heavily. “Do you have a diagnosis? A prognosis?  _ Something _ we can work with?”

Darkiplier does not look up from the table, though his expression twitches. “Something is… off in his mind.  _ // too easy to spot the cracks, to obliterate his defenses // _ I fear whatever amount of time he has left, there is even less for us.”

Googleplier twitches in his direction. “Your vague explanation appears to imply that Markiplier’s affliction is mental, not physical. Would it be possible to infiltrate his mind and fix what has malfunctioned?”

“...At this venture, there’s no way to be certain. There is a possibility of success, but it is minimal, and would most likely require  _ // my- my-  _ **_mine-_ ** _ // _ Mark’s cooperation.”

“Well, that’s out of the question,” Bim lifts his nose to the air. “Darkiplier’s the only one who’s ever gotten far enough to the surface, and Mark hates him.”

Mark does not hate Darkiplier.

The room quiets again, everyone drawn to the Host’s sudden outburst. Darkiplier’s aura fizzles briefly.

“Alright, but for as much as he knows about him, it’s not like our auspicious landlord  _ likes _ him,” Warfstache chuckles, scratching his scalp with the butt of the revolver. “And even if this is all true, it can’t  _ really _ matter, eh? We’ll just store ourselves in the next game he happens to play, leave him behind, then resurface the next time someone comes across his save file.”

In-game assimilation is not a viable option.

Darkiplier closes his shadowed eyes. “As much as I’m loathe to admit losing the out… Host speaks the truth.  _ // We’re connected to Mark, every minute, every day, always,  _ **_suffocating_ ** _ , wouldn’t you rather die than stay in here // _ The moment he goes, we follow- no matter where we are.”

“Right, then.” Warfstache tosses his revolver to the center of the table with a clatter. “We’re gonna need a plan of action. A battle strategy. I suggest invading his mind head-on, and destroying whatever’s threatening us. A full, frontal-lobe assault. Who’s with me?”

“That’s stupid,” Dr. Iplier snaps uncharacteristically. “If this  _ thing _ follows us wherever we are, we could already have the contagion. And you don’t attack a virus without knowing what it is first; that’s how they build immunity.”

“Masters of adaptation,” Googleplier expounds. “An enemy with the ability to learn is a dangerous one.”

“Exactly! Right now, we are Mark’s immune system, and we need to figure out a smart way to purge the infection,” Dr. Iplier mashes a fist onto the table, rattling it softly.

“Why don’t we just tell Mark what’s happening?” Bim cuts in, inspecting his manicured fingernails in a bored fashion. “Sure, Mark and Dark may not be on the best of terms, but Mark’d still listen, right?”

“Mark doesn’t listen  _ // shouldn’t, shouldn’t, just  _ **_listen to me_ ** _ // _ to a word I say,” Darkiplier pushes hair from his eyes, trying to compose himself. “Even if he knew I was telling the truth about his impending death, he’s always second-guessing everything I say for manipulation- rightfully so.”

“Righty-o!” Warfstache cheers. “Back to square one, then. Now, here’s an idea: if not a head-on assault, perhaps we could modify the great gummy lizard strategy, make it so-”

Darkiplier wordlessly shoves his chair away from the table, and Warfstache falls silent.

“What, leaving already?” He frowns, the tips of his moustache drooping. “You’re rather integral here, ya know.”

“How typical. We find out we’re all dying, and the emo-goth over here wants to sulk in his room instead of making a plan,” Bim chuffs, adjusting his suit jacket. “Thanks for joining us tonight, on this special showing of Kill-Our-Asses! Go take your commercial break, you whiny teenager, we can do this by ourselves.”

Darkiplier pauses in his trek to the door, and places his hands behind his back, turning to face Bim. His aura fidgets, expands briefly, then rattles at its usual circumference.

“My apologies, perhaps I have not made myself explicitly clear. Mark is dying, and working together to solve this is not only extremely difficult for the likes of us, but also incredibly useless. _// you need me, only I can access Mark’s mind,_ ** _you_** **_need me_** _//_ I am finding solace in my illusions, where I can think up a plan to save all of your asses. _// I can save you all, just_ ** _trust_** _me,_ ** _let me in_** _//_ If anyone has a problem with that, they can address me personally, on my turf.”

He slams the door shut behind him, disappearing with the sound. The room left behind him is completely silent, until Dr. Iplier addresses everyone else quietly.

“Anyone else notice something off about him?” he leans forward. “He’s been brash. Hell, even impolite. Couldn’t control his glitches- even more than usual. What if he knew this was coming?”

Darkiplier had not known of these events prior to this meeting.

“Maybe the fact that he didn’t figure it out in the first place is what’s bugging him,” Bim shrugs. “Not like it matters, anyway. If he wants to take all the responsibility for saving our asses, he can go ahead.” With that and a snap of his manicured fingers, he disappears as well.

“It is possible that his compound nature renders him susceptible to triple the amount of human affliction,” Googleplier cocks his head sharply. “Composure may be difficult when containing three souls in one essence.”

“I may visit him for a routine check-up,” Dr. Iplier shakes his head, standing. “Beyond that, there’s not much left to say. If you’ll excuse me, I left a patient in critical condition in surgery, and I’d like to return now. Best of luck.”

“I will likewise take my leave. If information is found on the subject, I shall not hesitate to share.” The two of them leave together, going their separate ways past the door.

With their absences, only Warfstache and the Host are left in the conference room.

“Well, old chap. Lively meeting you brought together, here.” He pauses, smirking at the twitch behind the blindfold. “Anxious, are we?”

The Host is… unnerved.

“Well, you’re interviewee numero one-o to be disintegrated, my friend, I’d think unnerved is one crack of an understatement.”

Darkiplier will not be able to save Mark by himself.

“Wonderful, then go hang out in  _ his _ grills.” Warfstache lifts his revolver from the table and twirls it on his middle finger. “Always wanted to go out with a bang, y’know- not that I’m planning to go out, mind you. I’m just finding this all quite appropriate.”

Warfstache is also unnerved.

“Not at all, you lying sunnova bitch,” Warfstache chuckles, aiming the revolver directly at the Host’s face. “Just got a very sensitive survival gut, is all.”

The Host’s face turns slowly towards him, as if he could see Warfstache. His head tilts slightly, then,

The Host will accompany Darkiplier in his efforts.

And he is gone.

“Good riddance, eh buckos?” Warfstache laughed, shaking the bullets from his gun. “What a beautiful feeling this is. I hate it. But no matter- I’m not ready to go just yet.”

A blink, and the room was empty.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

“I could do more if you would control your glitches,” Dr. Iplier grunted and staggered backwards as a particularly deafening scream erupted from Darkiplier’s form.

“Perhaps you have not noticed  _ // notice, notice, I notice every symptom you cannot, you  _ **_need_ ** _ me, take me with you // _ but it is rather difficult to reign myself in.”

“I see that. Either you’re feeling particularly insecure at the moment, or your attempts at manipulation are getting uncharacteristically needy,” the doctor noted with a frown, pushing through the other persona’s aura to try to get a pulse. “Hold  _ still _ .”

“I  _ am _ , doctor,” Darkiplier seethed. “It is hardly my fault that this form was not designed to hold my complexities. Or perhaps if you were better at your job, we wouldn’t be having these difficulties.”

“Subtlety is failing you,” Dr. Iplier said, as if diagnosing liver failure. “You’re worse off than I thought. Any ideas as to what’s causing it?”

“Other than what felt like a ten-hour tour of Mark’s brain? No.”

“Right, then,” Dr. Iplier stepped back, recording the pulse count on his notepad. “Did you display these symptoms before the meeting?”

“Not immediately before,” Darkiplier shoved past the doctor, closing his eyes to conjure surroundings into a wall of void to their right. “I had no problems in the illusion the Host found me in. No stitches or bleeding through.”

“Stitches? You’ve had complications creating illusions in the past?” Dr. Iplier looked shocked, forgetting even to scribble on his notepad.

“I’ve had no problems  _ making _ them,” Darkiplier hissed, and in an instant, they were in a familiar bedroom, the only illumination coming from the dim brightness of the computer screen in the corner. “However, they are harder to maintain through glitches. I… occasionally lose my grip.”

“You don’t have to worry about me gossiping,” the doctor said, noting Darkiplier’s hesitance. “We’ve got this thing called doctor-patient confidentiality. More importantly, I’ve got this thing called integrity.”

“I’m sure. Are you finished?”

“Not quite- just a few more questions. For the files, of course.” Dr. Iplier avoided his gaze, looking at his notepad. “When was the first time you tried to take over Mark’s body by yourself?”

He was met with silence. It wasn’t until a minute had passed that the doctor spared a glance upward. The stiff look on Darkiplier’s face definitely wasn’t a good sign.

“It’s nothing personal.  _ // not just me, we could do it together, just  _ **_let me in_ ** _ //  _ I’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve been me,” he said, in lieu of an answer.

Dr. Iplier frowned. “Then what’s changed since then?”

The look slid off of Darkiplier’s face, and his gaze drew to the computer screen across the room. “I tried it when Mark was awake.”

“You mean, when he wasn't playing a game,” Dr. Iplier filled in, unable to disguise the horror in his frown.

“He was eating breakfast. I caught him just as he was pouring the milk,” Darkiplier said, his flat laughter cutting and pasting over itself as he glitched furiously. “I doubt he would’ve believed it was real, if not for the mess he had to clean up afterwards.”

“You… ” the doctor opened his mouth to say something, then revised it. “What did it feel like?”

He never quite got an answer- just a cryptic smile- before they were interrupted.

**_The Host suddenly appears, coming to join a collaboration effort to solve the newly found problem._ **

“Ah, just in time,” Darkiplier greets politely. “Dr. Iplier here was just leaving.”

“On my own time, actually, I was,” the doctor stashes his notepad and shoots Darkiplier a look. “If it gets worse, you come to me, alright?”

“What, so you can give me that stale line about how I’m dying?” Darkiplier says, neither mean nor joking.

“Only if you reply with something brooding and suspicious,” Dr. Iplier indulges, then leaves without acknowledging the Host’s presence.

Dr. Iplier has never been known to care extensively about any of his patients, never mind any of the other personas.

“Well, then, perhaps I’ve got him under my thumb. Is that so difficult to imagine?”

What is Darkiplier’s affliction?

“He’s surrounded by imbeciles who believe they know everything,” Darkiplier replies, absentmindedly playing with the brightness of the room. “Which, I suppose, would make you the exception, since you have access to the script.  _ // you know everything, I can do anything, you know I can  _ **_help_ ** _ you // _ How long have you had that, anyway? Mark didn’t give you copy, did he?”

Somehow, he is able to consistently utter the name like a curse, as if the first time he learned to pronounce the word produced the utmost disdain in his heart.

“From the beginning, then?” Darkiplier asks, settling the brightness at a comfortable medium. “Would that be before or after the blindfold went on?”

The Host does not reply, though not out of shock.

“I hope not out of offense, either,” Darkiplier frowns. Galaga appears on the computer in the corner.

The Host is not given time to respond as the doorknob to the bedroom rattles. In steps Mark- or what the Host presumes is a replica.

“You’d be correct. Merely a shade, though what I wouldn’t do for a chance to get the real Mark in here… ”

The shade moves to the computer, completely relaxed despite the low lighting, and begins to set up his recording station. The Host turns to face Darkiplier, whose expression has become pinched in his concentration.

“Not a perfect replica, but still driven by his subconscious desires,” Darkiplier murmurs, “If I can observe him for long enough, maybe I can derive a solution to our problem.”

Darkiplier hopes to find symptoms in Mark’s subconscious. An ingenious idea, though physically tasking by all means. The way Dark’s hands clench behind his back is not lost by the Host.

“I’m more concerned about the presence of answers, than how long I can keep it up.” Darkiplier side-eyes the Host, eyes squinting. “You don’t seem to be opposed to the idea, so I suppose the script is on my side, in doing this.”

The Host struggles to come up with an answer that would convey his intentions. He flips back through the script and arrives at the previous scene. ‘Skimmed’, he points out.

“Of course. Then it’s your personal judgement telling me that this may be worth our time?”

The Host hesitates to agree, unable to verbally emphasize his desperation to find any kind of solution to their problem. Instead, his gaze wanders to the Markiplier shade, which has started playing its assigned video game.

“He’s not changing the game,” Darkiplier frowns suddenly. “Normally he’d never just take what I give him; he should’ve switched out games by now. Which means he’s preoccupied.”

For someone rivaling Mark, Darkiplier seems well-versed in how his mind works. Though it is still unclear whether Mark has suddenly realized his affliction, it is a possibility the Host is willing to entertain.

“No, not yet,” Darkiplier waves the suggestion off. “The reaction will be far bigger than that; whatever afflicts him, it threatens his life. I’ll start believing he knows about it when shades dissipate on their own, or when the personalities he gives us start to control the illusions, or when the dreamscape starts glitching by itself.”

The Host can’t contain his curiosity, burning to know if those circumstances had happened before. Darkiplier eyes him oddly.

“A few times. When Mark was in some very low places. His mind hardly becomes habitable in those times.” He frowns. “I thought you had access to the entire script, backwards and forwards.”

The Host is unable to clearly view past events that occurred before he… emerged. The capability is there, but it is extremely difficult to do, and knowledge often comes in jagged snapshots.

“So there  _ are _ some things you don’t know.  _ // I’ve been through everything, I can tell you everything, just  _ **_say yes_ ** _ // _ Interesting.”

Darkiplier’s expression suddenly plummets further, wrenching into an ugly sneer. He is wracked with what looks like a shiver, topped with this odd movement in his neck, snaking his head around. The Host ponders, then hesitantly connects this with Dr. Iplier’s presence.

“It’s nothing,” Darkiplier insists, his fingers fidgeting behind his back, a nervous tick. “My glitches, they feel… different, somehow.”

They itch.

Darkiplier pins him with a sharp look. “Yes.”

It is a byproduct of Mark’s affliction.

“...How?” he frowns. “It’s only started since I tried overtaking Mark outside of a game.”

Darkiplier does not understand the use of the games.

“I understand them quite well, thank you,” Darkiplier snaps, but he still has that confused frown. “They act as a buffer between the dreamscape and reality. For a smooth transition.”

Not only a buffer. Games are the equivalent of the safety on a gun. Overtaking via a game is not only easier, but also incredibly safer.

“So I had sex without the condom,” Darkiplier translates dryly. “Then is this an STD thing or a pregnancy thing?”

The Host is temporarily thrown by the comparison, and takes a moment to reassess his perception of Darkiplier- this affliction must be affecting him more than he had anticipated.

“Take your time,” the persona taps his foot impatiently. “But if it’s aids, tell it to me straight.”

The comparison is accurate. By overtaking Mark without protection, Darkiplier has exacerbated his own condition.

“You mean I likely have less time than the others.” He grimaces at the floor. “My god, Wilford is going to outlive me.”

Not necessarily. Wilford and the other personas are neither as authentic as Darkiplier, nor as old. His compound nature strengthens not only his abilities, but also his immunity to such problems as Mark’s affliction.

“I see. So it’s far easier for me to infiltrate Mark’s mind, but because I have done so outside of a game, I’ve shortened my lifespan- in light of this affliction, anyway.”

Correct. The Host estimates Darkiplier’s lifespan has been shaved by a quarter, giving him only hours longer than the other personas’ lifespans.

“How fortunate,” Darkiplier grunts, beginning to pace. His aura glitches sporadically, sending the room into static grayscale for brief moments.

Darkiplier must learn to control his glitches.

“Yes, thank you for the suggestion,” his feet thump the carpet hard, “After all, it’s not as if I’ve been attempting to do that since the day I was formed.”

It isn’t a suggestion. If he is to live to his last possible minute, Darkiplier must keep himself contained within one form.

Darkiplier falls silent, staring at the Host blankly. “You don’t mean this has something do with… ” His face convulses, and he takes a step forward. “Host… how are we going to die?”

Normally, personas become disused. Their illusions fade or become uncontrollable- fall apart like trying to hold water. They are unable to understand their personalities, or fail to recognize that they have personalities. Once their personalities fade, their essence follows. They become undefined, and become one with the void.

“I know that,” Darkiplier spits, advancing another step as his face contorted further. “But that’s  _ normally _ . What happens to  _ us _ ?”

The Host hesitates. He knows what Darkiplier means: what will happen to him? The Host also knows that of all of the personas, Darkiplier will suffer the most. The other personas will follow the course of nature, fading into the void.

“But not me,” Darkiplier’s lip curls. “It’s my ‘compound nature’, isn’t it? Tell me.”

The clash of his personalities is, essentially, what causes Darkiplier’s glitches. As Mark’s affliction progresses, the clashes will get more violent. Eventually, one personality will reign over the other to create a hybrid personality. 

Unable to attribute conflicting portions of personality with a specific soul… Darkiplier will tear himself apart from the inside out. Unravelling like a ball of yarn, strands of personality belonging to an unknown soul. He will become void, but… he, unlike any other persona, will be able to feel it.

The Host is reluctant to note Darkiplier’s reaction to his words. He debates skipping a few pages in the script, but is held back by his mortality. He only gets so many pages, though this is not a page he wishes he had.

Darkiplier does not feel himself start to fall. At just the last moment, some part of him remembers to conjure a couch behind him. He can’t help wondering which personality did it, ready to condemn whichever one it was for being lucid in the face of a slow and torturous death.

“That… ” 

It is suffering not worth mentioning, though Darkiplier tries his best to wrap language around the concept. The horror on his face is enough expression, but slowly his search for the right words gains vigor, and he is standing again.

“No. No, no- ”

The Host swallows, suddenly very aware of their surroundings as the scene begins to shake. The seams of the room start to split, corners shifting like tectonic plates and crown molding cracking in half. The ceiling explodes soundlessly outward in slow motion while the carpet starts to morph into something pale and fleshy.

“It’s- I-”

By far, Darkiplier is the most imposing change in the room. His aura is expanding saccadically, exploding in time with blinks of his watery eyes. He glitches sideways with increasing intensity, blues and reds colliding and splitting with alarming independence. Most terrifying is his expression, his eyebrows curving up to meet at the hairline, his mouth a gaping maw of despair and his eyes- his eyes completely black, blending in with the shadows beneath and creating a horrific illusion of something inhuman.

The shade he had conjured now hides beneath his desk, taking earthquake safety measures. The Host contemplates bringing up the other personas to ground Darkiplier, to calm him, but then realizes Darkiplier will not be able to see past his jealousy, the default jealousy of not having a painful death.

“It can’t be, can’t-”

The scenery is ripped away in an instant. Previous illusions flash before their eyes in quick succession, as if Darkiplier is attempting to expend a multitude of energy. A ballroom, a bathroom, a casino, a picnic table, a movie theater, a black void with a set dinner table, then finally- the interior of a mansion.

To the right, leaning over a drawer and peering into a large mirror, is Darkiplier. He looks at his own reflection, then looks at the Host’s reflection through the mirror.

“It’s not fair,” he begs, and they’re plunged into the void.

“I’m sorry,” Darkiplier says moments later, pulling the Host out of the mass of darkness and onto solid ground.

He is not glitching anymore, but it appears he doesn’t even have any energy left to create a full scenery; there are no walls or horizon or sky- even the grass beneath their feet feels rubbery and fake. It’s a small square of ground, where the edges drop off into the void.

“You were right. It is affecting me- emotionally and physically, it seems. How- how embarrassing, I- are you… ”

The Host takes mental count of his limbs and mental faculties and comes up at 100%. He was not surprised by Darkiplier’s outburst, but at least understands the shame in it. He does not understand how Darkiplier calmed himself down.

“I didn’t. I used up all of my energy by changing the illusion. I think I even put some of my essence into it- I’m exhausted.”

Dr. Iplier did give Darkiplier an order to inform him if his condition deteriorated.

“I don’t care about that. It’s a waste of time, now that we know the cause of this, right?” He blinks rapidly, swaying on his feet. “I- oh. I may have less energy than anticipated.”

The Host may have a solution.

“A solution?” Darkiplier’s gaze snaps up, and he tilts dangerously again. “What kind of solution?”

Only a temporary one. Darkiplier’s glitches are caused by clashing personalities- if said personalities were to be separated slightly, the clash would not be strong enough to elicit a physical response.

“You said my death will be caused by a separation so intense, I cease to function as one being,” Darkiplier frowns, shaking his head. “How could exacerbating that separation help?”

Darkiplier’s glitches would stop, for an indeterminate amount of time. The process may shorten his lifespan at an exponential rate, but he will be able to function until he reaches the event horizon of his separation.

“You’re suggesting the equivalent of morphine for a diseased patient- you’re putting me down,” Darkiplier says without emotion. “Assisted suicide.”

Neither mercy nor sentimentality plays any part in this. Merely logic. Only Darkiplier can fix Mark’s affliction. He cannot fix the affliction if he cannot function. Therefore, all measures must be taken to assure his functionality.

“You sound like Googleplier,” Dark scoffs, then stares at his feet for a few moments. Then he nods. “Alright. Do it.”

The process is most certainly uncomfortable, possibly bordering on painful. Darkiplier seems to have to concentrate on fighting his instincts to allow the separation, as his expression becomes pinched, his attention to the Host lost.

The Host suppresses the urge to think of how much he looks like Mark in this moment. Instead, he finishes the process, watching in fascination as Darkiplier’s auras shift apart from each other, pulling apart like unraveling twine, and then snapping back together. The difference is almost invisible, other than that his aura is clearly more defined than usual.

“That feels… ” Darkiplier’s voice is crooked, layered over itself as if he hired a bad editor in charge of his vocal chords. He clears his throat softly. “Anyway. It’s much better, thank you.”

Darkiplier owes the Host nothing, if that is what he is concerned about.

“It isn’t,” the persona insists, but his blue aura flickers, as does his expression. “I have to go. There’s something demanding my attention.”

The Host understands. He is gone in an instant, disappearing to his own domain.

Darkiplier looked at the space the Host had occupied for a moment, then peered down at his own hands, clenching them into experimental fists. He swallowed thickly, straightened his jacket and his hair, and disappeared in an imaginary gust of wind.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

Overtaking Mark has always been a taboo subject between the personas.

They have tried different strategies: sign-up sheets and time slots, going in order and going at random. No one ever feels that they’ve gotten enough time in Mark’s body, and the effect is essentially the dreamscape turned into a hormonal fraternity whose members haven’t had sex in months.

The current system they have employed seems to be working. Certain personas get the opportunity to overtake Mark depending on what game he is playing. Darkiplier takes the horror and indie genres, which just about covers what was left on the plate after the others had their fill.

Of course, given Mark’s propensity to gravitate to indie and horror and indie horror games, this means Darkiplier holds a monopoly on overtaking opportunities.

But really, the other personas don’t mind that much. They have their illusions to entertain them and solidify their personalities, so they are content with where they are. It is rare when one of them would attempt to overtake Mark anyway, rather using their influence in the game to mess with Mark or play with new code.

Darkiplier finds solace in the video games in other ways. Sometimes he mutes Mark and watches the story unfold; other times, he just listens to Mark, trying to discern how the man had managed to rack up such a formidable following with merely a camera, a game, and his reactions.

That is how he eventually meets up with Antisepticeye again.

“Well, well, well, look who’s back. Hope you’ve fed your dog this time.”

“Mark tends to Chica these days.” 

Darkiplier sits just beside the border of the two gamers’ voids, trying to listen in on Mark’s commentary through the game effects and Anti’s sudden laughter. “Do you mind?”

“You’d rather listen to  _ Jack _ than talk to me? I would be concerned if I weren’t so offended.” He plops down next to Darkiplier, though he remains on Jack’s side of the border.

“I’m more interested in Mark.”

“All the more reason to be offended,” Anti just grins, his green hair dipping into his eyes. “I take it you haven’t been indulging in your visitation rights recently.”

“Forcing oneself into the real world loses its luster after a while,” Darkiplier replies after a moment, his attention caught by the game. “I can’t imagine why someone like you would be interested.”

“Can’t imagine why I wouldn’t be,” Antisepticeye shoots back, his grin stiff. “You left me with that green-haired buffoon for  _ ages _ . I may hate you, but I don’t hate you that much.”

“I presume Jack’s head isn’t the most comfortable of places to reside,” Dark peers at Jack’s face closely. At the expectant silence, he adds, “You wouldn’t be the first persona I’ve met who is…  _ uncomfortable _ with their living arrangements.”

“Yes, well, I can’t say I’d be any more comfortable surrounded by other personas,” Anti chuffs, then cocks his head at Dark. “How’s the family, by the way?”

“Bearable. How’s Jack?” Dark shoots him a glare, which sends Anti into a peal of laughter.

“Well, well, twinkle-toes! I was wondering when you’d take the offensive. Last time you were practically nipping at my toes for a fight.”

“Yes, well, they are so incredibly pedicured,” Darkiplier drawls absentmindedly, drawn away from the conversation by Mark’s sudden, terrified squeal.

“I… never mind that!” Anti’s grin drops, and he glares at Dark’s form. “You seem different. Weaker.”

“It’s… nothing. An exception to the norm, I assure you. You yourself seem far less aggressive.”

Anti has the grace to look offended and amused at the same time. “You provoked me. I got defensive. Call it a character flaw.”

“Your character flaw boasted some big…  _ threats _ last time,” Dark says. “I may be weaker than normal, but don’t start thinking you can make good on false claims.”

“So quick to shut down any action! Are you scared?” He looks to Jack and Mark and laughs. “That’s for people out there.  _ Weak _ people. You’re not like them, are you?”

Dark watches him for a moment. “Why don’t you take a guess. I’ll tell you when you’ve got it right.”

“Alright,” Anti hops sideways, sitting criss-cross applesauce facing Dark and the border. He taps his chin dramatically. “I think… something’s wrong with Mark.”

Darkiplier blinks deliberately. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, look at the man, first of all!” Anti laughs, gesturing sideways at Mark. “Doesn’t look quite healthy, does he?” He is right. Mark is pale and sweating, his eyes slightly glossed over. “Not to mention you, of all people, taking an interest in him.”

“I’ve always had an interest in him,” Dark says evenly, expression blank as he looks up at Mark. “Albeit an ends-to-a-means sort of interest.”

“And here I was, thinking that was just everyone to you,” Anti chuckles, that same shiteating grin back on his face. “Dudn’t matter, though. Whatever’s wrong with Mark ain’t really my business. ‘Til you get weak enough to beat, of course.”

“Expecting any more of you would be fruitless,” Darkiplier affirms, and shoots Anti a sidelong glance. “I suppose you believe meetings like this aren’t completely useless.”

“I think any chance to escape that fool’s brain is a mercy. Wouldn’t you?”

Darkiplier stares at him for a long moment, his frown deepening. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You know, I’d love to take you apart from the inside out,” Anti smiles, baring his teeth. “We should hang out more often.”

Darkiplier looks up at the screen, at Jack, and hums his agreement. “Yes, I believe we should.”

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

Darkiplier knows the dreamscape like the back of his hand. Scratch that- like his own mind. In a sense, he crafted the place himself, so it isn’t hard for him to navigate.

There are some places he avoids at all costs. Empty rooms still owned by a faded persona, patchwork hallways for unused illusions- cracks in the walls where the void squirms, alive.

In the back, there is a room no one visits, or probably even knows of. It is as old as the dreamscape itself, its inhabitant older. It isn’t a place for other personas, especially Darkiplier.

He sits in a wooden chair by an occupied bed, his suit jacket unbuttoned and hair mussed. His left hand twirls a glass of scotch while he clenches something small and metal in his right. His gaze is glued onto the only other occupant of the room, such that he barely notices the Host’s arrival.

…The Host was not aware of this room’s existence.

“No one is,” Darkiplier says quietly, still staring. “No one spared him a thought after everything that happened that day. I can’t say I blame them.”

Warfstache was inquiring of Darkiplier’s whereabouts. The Host was sent to search for him.

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

…The Host can wait.

Darkiplier doesn’t say anything, just nods. Silence fills the room, seconds punctuated by a slow beeping of the machines surrounding the bed. After a minute of the noise, Darkiplier’s stare deepens and hardens into a glare. The persona takes an angry swig of his glass, then sets it down harshly on the bedside table. 

The other occupant doesn’t move. The beeping doesn’t stop.

“He was an idiot.” Darkiplier clenches his fist harder, knuckles turning white. “A gullible, weak idiot who should’ve left well enough alone.”

Markiplier cannot hear.

“I know that!” Darkiplier snaps, his fist unclenching. From his palm drops a bullet, which rolls onto the tiled floor. He snatches it up quickly before it can roll away, stopping with his head between his knees. He says to the floor, “I  _ know _ . Moron didn’t stop to think that when people play Russian Roulette, they aim for the head.”

…Markiplier has brain damage.

“How astute of you to notice,” Darkiplier seethes, straightening in his chair and stashing the bullet in his shirt pocket. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was, trying to wrench his mind away from his body to get it in here in one piece. And still, in the end, his mind clings to his curse.”

Converting the mansion to the dreamscape was necessary. The best option.

“Yes, tell that to the others, will you? They seem to think I’ve jailed them forever.” He shuffles in his seat, glancing at Markiplier. “In a way, I have. I’ve trapped all of us in this _damned_ _prison_.”

Damien is not at fault for any of the events that transpired.

“Bullshit, he isn’t,” Darkiplier grunts, his expression twitching oddly. “Don’t call me that. I’m not just him.”

Some part of Darkiplier contains Damien’s essence- the part of Darkiplier that provides a piece of humanity to appeal to.

“How touching,” Darkiplier spits scathingly, starting to button up his suit jacket. “Unfortunately, Damien can’t come to the phone right now. Or ever.  _ None _ of us can, because the other two will always be listening.”

Darkiplier does not understand. The House would consider sitting at Markiplier’s bedside a waste of time. Celine would consider it a meaningless revival of their time together. But Damien- Damien would consider it a chance to be with a friend.

“Are you done?” Darkiplier sighs into his hands, then drops them to his lap. He stands and finally looks at the Host, who frowns back. “You said Warfstache wanted me. Knowing him, he’s concocted some imbecilic plan to fix Mark, and if I don’t get there soon enough, he’ll probably start it before I have a chance to stop him.”

The Host is not comfortable with-

“Join the goddamn club, buddy. Now either take me to Warfstache or lock the door on your way out.”

…Understood.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

Since the news had traveled around the dreamscape that everyone was dying, Darkiplier had mostly stayed away from the video games. He had expected a surge of personas attempting to overtake Mark one last time, and he wasn’t completely wrong. But then Mark began doing more collaborations, and Darkiplier couldn’t resist the opportunities. 

It isn’t long before the Host, in particular, takes notice of Dark and Anti’s time spent together.

Antisepticeye is not to be trusted.

The ballroom is large and crowded with tuxes and hoops skirts, but not enough that Darkiplier can’t visibly see him pop into existence from three feet away. He appears from nowhere, yet gives no introduction or narration. Straight to the point.

“You seem even less comfortable than yesterday, Host,” Darkiplier notes with a polite bow to a lady in passing. He offers the Host his glass of wine, which the other persona ignores. “I certainly hope you’re feeling more yourself?”

Anti was not in the script.

“Well, knowing how your edition ends, I’d think a little change is a good thing.” 

He beckons a small child in the crowd to himself, and hands her the wine glass. She downs it in three disgusted gulps, then, with a pinched expression, hands the glass back to Darkiplier, who smiles indulgently at her.

Darkiplier is expending too much energy on his illusions and not enough controlling himself. His power is tangible in the air.

“What, I’m not allowed to have an extravagant funeral?” Darkiplier sighs, the sound clashing with the sharpness in his eyes.

He should not have summoned her.

The Host points to the girl Darkiplier has possibly inebriated. Dark doesn’t look at her, instead snagging a champagne glass from a passing waiter and carefully sipping it. The way he holds it, it definitely isn’t his first for the night.

“She’s never been drunk before,” he finally says, his smile almost unnerving. “I’m giving her all the things she never got. Is that so bad?”

She is consuming too much of his energy. He must banish her and simplify this illusion-

“You don’t seem to understand,” Darkiplier suddenly glares at him, expression snapping to sour in an instant. He takes a breath and peers through the crowd. “I am  _ dying _ . And I will celebrate however I like- whether through dining with my enemies- ” he gestures with his glass, “-or fixing what’s been done to me- ”

…Antisepticeye is here.

“Of course. Near the bar and the beautiful women, predictably.” Darkiplier gestures through the crowd.

The Host will have a word with him. Darkiplier will stay. Away. From the girl.

“Oh, you have no idea, old friend,” Darkiplier downs the rest of his champagne and the glass disappears. He takes one last minute to admire his illusion, then makes his way through the crowd to Anti and the Host.

Antisepticeye must leave Darkiplier alone.

“My apologies, my friend here isn’t quite as sober as he believes himself to be,” Dark cuts in, ordering a drink from the bartender. “I presume you’re finding my…  _ decor _ to your taste?”

“More than you could ever know,” Anti laughs through his teeth, his gaze tracking the bartender’s hips. “You still haven’t told me what the occasion is. Or broken the news to me, if that’s what this is.”

“I feel our relationship had a rather hesitant start.” Dark takes his drink with a polite nod and swirls it in his hand. “This is how I make amends.”

“Wanting to get all buddy-buddy, eh? You’ll need a lot more than cute girls and heavy booze to do that,” Anti grins, his eyes catching on the Host, who watches the exchange silently. “So who’s the weird dude trying to ruin our newfangled friendship before it begins?”

“Not someone who received an invite, I assure you,” Dark says, taking a swig from his glass. “This is the Host, Mark’s resident, ah,  _ psychic _ .”

“Psychic, eh?” Anti looks overjoyed. “Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

The Host would rather not participate in vulgarities.

“Ah, refers to himself in third-person? Charming.” Anti snickers, turning to Dark, “Looks like someone’s got  _ i-ssu-es _ .”

Darkiplier must be left alone.

“Ooh, you’re right, new-guy, Dark’s got issues, too,” Anti smirks back at Dark. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I like him.” He turns back to the Host. “Can you do card tricks?”

Antisepticeye is annoying.

“You- oi, don’t think I didn’t see that!” Anti points at Dark, indicating the twitch of his mouth. “Ugh. You look kinda like Mark when you smile, it’s disgusting.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t make me smile, then,” Dark places his glass on the bar counter, ordering another shot. “Though, fair enough, it’s difficult for the Host as well.”

Darkiplier is currently in too fragile of a state of mind to consort-

“I’m back!” A little girl’s laughter breaks their conversation, pushing through the crowd and running to Darkiplier, at whom both Anti and the Host stare.

Dark looks down at the girl. “You are back, aren’t you?” He takes his vodka shot and leans down to hand it to her. “Prepare yourself; this one’s very strong.”

Anti slides off his bar stool in interest. “Oh, and who’s this little gem?” He bends to one knee, grinning maniacally at the little girl.

Time freezes in an instant. The girl suddenly looks scared, and the illusion mutes itself, leaving only a faint, high pitched whistle. The other shades in the room stop what they are doing and turn to stare silently.

Then the girl pops out of existence, and the party resumes as normal.

-with personas with whom he has no business consorting with.

“That one was particularly wordy. Are you certain you don’t want to go back and revise that?” Dark suggests, then turns to face Anti, who is still kneeling. “Oh. Did the moonshine finally get to you?”

“Who do you think I am?” Anti chuffs, though he still looks a bit bemused. “Anyways, we’ve only got about thirty seconds ‘till the outro. Any last passing remarks? Personally, I think this was one  _ hell _ of a party.”

“Yes,” Darkiplier concedes, glancing out at the crowd. “I certainly learned a lot.”

“Right. You ever get a little tired of his dramatics?” Anti nudges the Host, who takes a pointed step backward, not responding.

Darkiplier will kill himself if he continues like this. He will kill everyone.

Darkiplier doesn’t say anything, so Anti fills the silence with, “Well then, good riddance for whoever’s left, I suppose. Anyway, I’ll see  _ you _ in the next vid, eh?”

“I await our next meeting with… anticipation,” Darkiplier says, ignoring the weird look Anti gives him. Then suddenly Anti is gone, taking the scenery with him. 

Dark carelessly conjures Mark’s kitchen around them, moving to brew himself a cup of coffee as though nothing had happened.

“I didn’t expect you to arrive,” he says finally. “I regret you had to see that. Manipulation often calls for such… circumstances.”

The Host was not aware Mark was streaming. Nor that he had company.

“Yes, of course. No subtitles for you to narrate in a livestream, how should you have known?” Darkiplier turns to face him with a freshly brewed mug. The Host knows he won’t drink any of it. “Don’t fret, old friend. There was no harm done.”

Regardless if it was just another manipulation of Anti, conjuring the girl took much of Dark’s energy. Is a meaningless manipulation worth hours of Darkiplier’s life shaved off?

“Mm- not quite as meaningless as you think,” Darkiplier sets the mug on the counter. “He is… good practice.”

What is the use of practice when soon there will be no one to practice on? Mark is dying, his personas are dying, and Darkiplier toys with an outsider.

“Careful, Host. That was almost an exclamation,” Dark frowns, glancing the Host up and down. “You look worse. Worse than any of us. When did you start interfering more than narrating?”

Since Darkiplier decided to sacrifice his life and others’ for his own amusement. 

Darkiplier gazes at him evenly. “What gives you that impression?”

The personas are dying- Mark is dying- and Darkiplier hides, playing with a meaningless outsider instead of looking for a solution.

“Oh? And since when is a little self-indulgence a crime?” Darkiplier finally seems to get riled up. “That sentiment’s a bit rich, coming from you. For  _ years _ I have suppressed so many of my urges, and now- now that the end is coming, what, I’m supposed to do as I’ve always done?  _ // Look where it’s  _ **_gotten us_ ** _ //  _ I’m sick and tired of being  _ patient _ !”

Patience and reaffirmation is what keeps personas alive!

“Yes, well maybe I don’t want it to be!” He screams, and glasses and plates shatter inside the cupboards, spilling out in mounds. He takes a deep breath. “I excel at being patient. I  _ have _ to be, with three sides of myself fighting all the time. But I  _ need _ to have the freedom to lose it.”

There is freedom in death.

“Oh, save me your philosophical bullshit.” Darkiplier glares daggers at him, then just as quickly relents. “Never mind that. Next time you’d like to selfishly barge in to my illusion and ruin my evening, don’t hide behind that mask of concern.”

Darkiplier is the only one who can save the personas.

“No. I’m the only one who can save  _ you _ .” Dark corrects, heading for the exit. “And you’ve just lost all of the possibilities of that happening.”

He disappears with the soft rustle of nonexistent wind.

Fucking asshole.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

The Host’s domain was not quite like any of the other persona’s.

It contained one simple, recurring room in the middle of whatever illusion was conjured. Small, fit for the movement of one person and decked to the ceiling with computer monitors, keyboards, headphones, speakers, microphones, and dozens upon dozens of books.

“House of Leaves, Mark Danielewski? I shudder to think what you’re doing to the more sentient scraps.” Darkiplier replaced the book on the shelf, perusing other titles while the Host narrated through his microphone behind Dark’s back. “I came to offer my help on finding a solution to our joint problem, but it appears you’re busy.”

He got no response, so he thumbed a different book off the shelf and began flicking through it. “You’ve been patient enough these past few days. I’ll return the favor, this can wait.”

A few hours later, the Host’s litany of words came to a novel-esque ending, after which the room was bathed in a tired silence. Once the headphones came off of his head, he stiffened.

“Total immersion. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t quite expecting you to have the capability to block out anything happening in your presence,” Darkiplier closes his fourth book and places it on the pile beside him, then stands. “You wouldn’t believe the things I said while you were under.”

Darkiplier has come to propose a solution to the problem.

“One of them, perhaps. Probably not the one you’re terrified of.”

The Host is… uncertain to what Darkiplier refers to.

“Still fuzzy from your illusion-high?” Dark’s mouth twitches upward. “The only other problem you’ve ever come to me with, detective.”

The colonel.

“Precisely.”

Unimportant. Warfstache is not the priority at this moment.

“I beg to differ,” Darkiplier frowns. “He’s been rallying his troops, so to speak. Getting ready to take Mark on by storm.”

He will not be able to fix Mark’s problem any more than Mark himself can.

“Which is why I suggest we hasten the solution to our other problem and get rid of him before he can think up anymore half-witted plans.”

Darkiplier is suggesting… the plan to exact revenge is to force Warfstache to fade?

 

“It isn’t like we can just kill him,” Darkiplier points out, turning to reshelve the books he had taken out. “And we can’t hurt him: he doesn’t have relatives or friends in the real world, he doesn’t hold a position of power- not over me at least- and he’s so damn unpredictable that doing anything else would likely backfire. Not to mention it gets rid of his influence forever.”

And if this plan backfires?

“Well, then, we can always lock him in Markiplier’s room for all eternity.”

The Host finds that option preferable.

“That,” Darkiplier sighs, “was a joke. As you’ve noted, some part of me does insist on returning to that damned room, on occasion. I will not let Warfstache cause any more damage than he already has.”

Perhaps the easiest way to mitigate Warfstache’s problematic tendencies is to leave him to them.

The silence is poisoned as Darkiplier slowly turns to face him. “You don’t want revenge anymore.”

The Host is thinking logically. Revenge is based upon betrayal. What the colonel took from the detective has been revived, in some form, by Darkiplier. The only thing missing is freedom, which is unattainable if Mark’s affliction is not solved-

“All that he did- all that he  _ broke _ , and you’re just going to let it pass?” Darkiplier spits, advancing on the Host, who does not react.

Darkiplier’s temper has been frayed since the news of his impending death. This conversation is not conducive-

“This conversation is not conducive to maintaining my respect for you!” Darkiplier hisses, throwing the book he held to the dusty floor. “Has facing your own mortality made you this weak?”

Darkiplier has been spending too much time with Antisepticeye. He is unable to think rationally, and appears to be acting purely on emotion-

“Why yes, by all means, belittle everything that has happened to me because of that crazed  _ oaf _ . Hell, go on, catalog my every move. I’m sure your scraps will enjoy the parallelisms.”

The Host would not degrade Darkiplier’s past by forcing scraps to live through them.

“The Host is an arrogant, compulsive control freak with a raving god complex. He is a man so consumed with knowing the answer to every question, obsessed with never being caught off-balance, terrified of never having to live with uncertainty again, and yet still hungry for what the future will unfold. Tell me, what has he become now?”

Disillusioned with petty desires like revenge.

Darkiplier doesn’t respond, just stares at the Host as if he is seeing someone new. The Host now is hardly the man he started out as.

“I can see that,” Darkiplier finally says, and heads for the door. The Host takes a breath, and Darkiplier turns.

Don’t call me the detective again.

“Not until you deserve to be called the Host again.”

The door slams shut behind him.

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

“Are you dying?” Anti asked out of the blue, his smirk curving like the bloody smear on his neck. He glanced at Darkiplier, who did not look at him. “I mean, it’s just that I’ve tried doing the subtle thing before, and it didn’t really work, so I’m hoping blunt is the way to go here. Are you dying?”

“Not quite,” he said after a long moment. “Though it feels more like it as the days go by.”

Mark and Jack had sat down together to play a peaceful game this time. Filled with narration and a beautiful soundtrack. Stylistic art and a slow story left Dark and Anti talking for hours, Anti lying on his stomach to watch the scenery roll by while Dark conjured himself a chair to relax in.

“How many days do you have left?” Anti said, his feet kicking into the air. He looked like an enraptured schoolgirl. Not at all appropriate for the subject matter.

“Indeterminate is what I’ve been told,” Dark said, closing his eyes. If he concentrated, he could pretend that the digital sunset was real. He could almost feel the sunrays beating on his face. “Though supposedly I’ll have longer than everyone else. Perks of being… layered.”

“How does that work, anyway? If I peel back your skin, am I gonna find another skin right underneath?”

“Not at all,” Dark’s lip twitched at the analogy. “If you must know- the Seer is the most active, the Mayor the most submissive. The House glues them together, channeling energy from their…  _ differences _ into glitches.”

“You’ve got a  _ house _ in you?” Anti tore his gaze from the screen to shoot him a mash between an amused grin and a scandalized grimace. “No wonder you hate living inside someone. It’s house-ception. Arguably the most unstable of all types.”

“Arguably,” Dark conceded amicably. 

Occasionally Mark and Jack’s conversation would grow into a raucous clamor, and other times fall silent. When their conversation and their personas’ conversation would join in silence together, the gamers’ presences were almost enjoyable.

“So if you’re this amalgamation of a buncha different people, right,” Anti rolled over, putting his hands behind his head, relaxed. “Aren’t you afraid one of ‘em’s just gonna take over?”

“It doesn’t- ” Dark paused, his mouth still open. He looked at Mark, at the wonder held by his cheeks, and reassessed. “At times, I fear I am more of one person than the others. The domination aspect does not scare me, but incohesion is… unsettling.”

“Which one’s been coming out the most?”

Dark glanced at Anti, still giving Dark his full attention, then looked back at the screen. “The Mayor.”

“...Cool. Now why’d you say that like it was a death wish?”

“The Mayor is the most human part of me.” Darkiplier’s jaw jutted out slightly as he chewed on his inner cheek. “As you would say, the weakest part of me.”

“Huh. We all have people we’d rather not be, I suppose.” Anti seemed to take in Dark’s words for a moment. “So then this thing that’s got Mark between its thighs- it’s killing all his personas?”

Dark nodded slowly. “It’s chaos in his mind. Personas scrambling to find a solution, taking every opportunity to do things they’d never do if not faced with their own mortality. Even the void’s started acting up- the weaker personas are starting to say they can hear it screaming.”

“That’s… really fucked up.”

“It’s madness, completely dangerous to everyone,” Dark continued, cocking his head at the picture-esque swallow that dove toward the camera in the game. “Most personas have taken to locking themselves in their domains, while the others fight it out in the dreamscape, thinking if they’re the last one standing, they’ll survive it all.”

“This place is your haven,” Anti blinked slowly, eyes widening. “You don’t come here for me at all, you lying’ bastard!”

“I don’t need protection,” Darkiplier snapped suddenly, glaring at Anti. “Least of all from the bumbling fools running around Mark’s head.”

“Yeah, alright, whatever you say,” Anti huffed, leaning his head back to watch the game upside-down. “Sounds like fun, though. Jack’s head is a great big Jack-O-Lantern, hollow and shit-loads of gunk all over the walls.”

Dark frowned. “I thought you enjoyed yourself, making glitches and taking over Jack’s body.”

“Nah, it’s lost its… ehh, its… what’s the word?”

“Luster?”

“I was going to say kinkiness, but that works too.” After a beat of silence, he added, “I mean, in a personal way. Not a two-way street there. Just- my own preference.”

“I get it, you don’t have to say it.”

“I kinda feel like I do- ”

“You really don’t.” Anti made a face, and Dark lifted a finger. “Really. Don’t.”

Anti suddenly turned to him, grinning. “I bet  _ you’ve _ seen some stuff, haven’t you?”

Dark raised an eyebrow. “‘Stuff’?”

“Yeah, y’know,” Anti propped himself up on an elbow, expression hungry and unashamed. “Sexual things.”

“Plenty.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Ever heard of Septiplier?”

Anti paled, and swallowed audibly. “I don’t think I’ve ever lost a mental boner quite that fast.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Jesus,” Anti swore, sitting up. “ _ Christ _ , do people not have  _ decency _ ?”

“More importantly, they lack inhibition,” Dark noted. “And tact.”

“And  _ intelligence _ ,” Anti stressed, then seemed to choke on air. “Oh, god, d’you think people think  _ we- _ ”

“Undoubtedly,” Dark winced. “I think it’d be wise to change the subject.”

“For the love of mother Mary of fuck, yes, change the subject!” Anti shot up, starting to pace. “To  _ anything _ , Jesus! Why did you have to bring that up?”

“You asked about it,” Dark shrugged. “Now I regret Mark and Jack choosing such a quiet, soothing game. I almost miss the noise to block out the- ”

“That’s far enough!” Anti broke in, slapping his hands to his ears. It must have rattled something in his head, because a moment later he removed them, looking bemused. He looked sharply at Dark. “You’ve been very forthcoming today.”

Dark hesitated, visibly stopping to think about it. “I suppose I have, haven’t I? The Host told me Mark’s affliction would have adverse side-effects. I don’t notice- ”

“No, no, no, I  _ know _ .” Anti said, as if in mid-realization. “I  _ know _ why you’ve been so forthcoming.”

Dark rolled his eyes. “Please, oh great deity, enlighten me.”

“You’re trying’ to screw me.”

“I assure you, I am not,” Dark straightened his tie, looking a little sick.

“No, no, not like that!” Anti groaned, gesturing wildly. “I mean you’re trying to screw me  _ over _ !”

“Oh,” Dark blinked. “Why do you think so?”

“I asked you questions- and you  _ answered _ .” Anti sputtered, as if the sky had suddenly turned brown. “With semi-coherent answers, too! That’s the easiest you’ve ever been.”

“I believe you’re missing a crucial element in all this.” Darkiplier stood, straightening his suit jacket and flipping his hair sideways. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have the best… control of myself, anymore.”

“So, what, you don’t have control over what you say anymore?”

“For the rest of my depleting lifespan, I plan to squeeze the last bit of time out of every one of our encounters,” Darkiplier turned to face him. “Undoubtedly, with future degeneration, my personal barriers may eventually… crack.”

“You want to tell me about yourself while you still know what you’re saying, rather than later when you can’t control what spills out of your mouth,” Anti translated, then huffed. “Is this another one of your stupid tries to get all buddy-buddy with me?”

“You find the prospect displeasing.”

“Uh, no, I find it hilarious, actually,” Anti grinned. “The fact you’re actually trying is the funniest thing I’ve heard in awhile. I’m up for indulging your faux friendliness for as long as you’re willing to keep it up.”

Darkiplier turned to watch the screen, blinking up at Mark. “And when that’s over?”

Anti leaned back with a self-satisfying smile. “Let’s just say I’ll be looking forward to finally whipping your ass in a fight to the death.”

“I believe we’ve just reached an understanding,” Dark looked back appraisingly at Anti.

“No, this is how it’s been from the start,” he chuckled. “You’re just starting to see it.”

Darkiplier turned back to the screen to hide his smile.

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

“We have to get rid of him, plain and simple,” Bim says, fiddling with his tie in the reflection of the window opposite him. “Who’d like the honors?”

“No, we can’t get rid of him- have you even been paying attention? We  _ need _ him,” Dr. Iplier sighs, putting his head down on the conference table.

“I agree with Bim,” Googleplier stares at the gameshow host. “Though I find his vanity objectively repulsive, eliminating Darkiplier will likewise eliminate a large disadvantage to our plan- and possibly provide another advantage.”

“What? What  _ possible _ advantage could we get by shoving him in the waiting room when we could just as easily throw him in the operating room?”

The wine cellar has been empty for months.

The room falls silent, mostly in shock at the Host’s sudden proclamation.

“You plan to throw him in the wine cellar?” Bim finally speaks. “What has he done to deserve that?”

“More importantly, what has he done to  _ you _ to deserve that,” Dr Iplier adds. “You’ve been irritable all morning, but the wine cellar’s extreme, even for you.  _ Especially _ for you.”

Darkiplier is not himself anymore.

Dr. Iplier laughs nervously. “That’s no reason to put him in the wine cellar. In fact, one might argue throwing him in the wine cellar would exacerbate his symptoms.”

“Maybe not,” Bim considers, pouting at himself in the window reflection. “I mean, sure, it’s a last measure, but it’s worked for other personas.”

“But Darkiplier isn’t just one persona- not to mention he’s never been in there before. It could just as easily unravel him as put him back together.” Dr. Iplier looks around the table, scandalized at the expressions on everyone else.

“It’ll get him out of the way,” Bim tempts.

“We will recruit 20% more volunteers without his influence around the dreamscape,” Googleplier states. “That is a 45% increase in work efficiency.”

He will return to normal.

“Well, then, that settles it!” Warfstache exclaimes, tossing his hands in the air. “We’re locking him in the wine cellar.”

Dr. Iplier folds his arms and mutters, “Fine, do what you want. But when he gets out of there broken, don’t send him to me.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you won’t enjoy examining that room’s effects on something like him,” Bim scoffs. “It sounds like Darkiplier isn’t the only one who’s changed.”

Someone must be tasked to putting Darkiplier in the cellar. Warfstache is the top candidate.

“Wha- me? Really?” he gushes, though he does look a tad bit uncomfortable. “Eughh, though that place always did give me the creeps. What’s supposed to happen in there again?”

The Host notes the rest of the room’s confusion, and himself adds that Warfstache has never been inside the wine cellar either.

“Ha! I would’ve bet he lived in it, if not for the fact that I live two doors down from it,” Bim quips happily. “Who wants to explain it to him? I want to see his reaction.”

“The wine cellar was one of the main staples of the real mansion before it was first converted,” Googleplier begins, but is soon cut off, since,

Warfstache is aware of the wine cellar’s history, as he was there at its conception.

“I was the one who insisted it be installed back in the real mansion, actually,” Warfstache huffs, pulling at his suspender straps. “Er, we don’t hold wine in it now, do we? What do we use it for?”

“A torture chamber,” Bim adds oohs and ahhs for effect, giving a winning smile. “Sounds fun, right?”

“It’s where we throw the misbehaving personas,” Dr. Iplier speaks over him, glaring across the table. “It’s designed to create circumstances where the persona is forced to embrace their personality.”

“Ah, well. It just sounds like any good illusion, boys! Surely there’s nothing- ”

“The wine cellar employs extreme fear tactics and trauma inducements to trigger a persona’s instinctive personality to culminate in a witch’s stew of traits and flaws, held together by stress and anxiety,” Googleplier says, then frowns. “Excuse the metaphor.”

“It puts you in an illusion of your deepest fears,” Dr. Iplier picks up. “It supposedly doubles the effect of a normal illusion session, but in the past there have been… unfortunate side effects.”

“So we’ve been hiding a secret government testing container in our basement this entire time, and I wasn’t told?” Warfstache looks incredibly offended. “Then why was I immediately voted to do the job?”

“The cellar has a distinct  _ effect _ on its victims. I don’t live right next to it, but I’m close enough to get sick to my stomach whenever I return to my domain,” Bim says, his nose high in the air. “Apparently, you’ve never been in there, the only one of us who hasn’t. It’s the only thing we’ve got seniority over you. Just let us enjoy it.”

“Oh, wait, so I’m supposed to do this out of  _ your _ convenience, not mine?” Warfstache looks like they have all overlooked a very pertinent character trait of his. “Well, that’s a bit rude, isn’t it?”

“ _ Exactly _ , this is cruel and unusual!” Dr. Iplier jumps up triumphantly. “Don’t put Darkiplier in the cellar, and don’t make Warfstache put himself in danger!”

“Well, now, I never said I wouldn’t do it.” Warfstache chuckles, stroking his moustache. “I’m just letting you all know that if something undesirable happens to me when I do this, I’m totally gonna blame it on all of you.”

“Uh, hold on- ” Bim straightens in his seat, looking much less relaxed. 

There is no reason for his anxiety. It is a risk worthy enough to be assumed.

“The Host’s assumption is correct,” Googleplier whirrs. “Due to Warfstache’s inability to perceive any events as anything other than a practical joke, there is only a 12% chance of repercussions to us.”

“Right,” Warfstache concedes, obviously not understanding a word. “So where can I find our multifaceted friend?”

“Hopefully, for all our sakes, you won’t,” Dr. Iplier mutters.

“If you’ve got something constructive to say, say it,” Bim pushes, glaring. “But if you keep arguing, I’ll revoke your research privileges.”

Dr. Iplier grunts, but doesn’t say anything else.

The Host brings the attention back to the subject by addressing Warfstache. He can find Darkiplier mid-illusion in his domain.

“That doesn’t bode well,” Bim says what they were all thinking. “What if Warfstache needs back-up?”

“Ah, relax, faux-Host- hey! Fauxst!- I’ll be just fine,” Warfstache chortles. “I can handle Darkiplier, always could. He’ll be in the cellar by the end of the hour.”

“That is desirable. Lengthening this process will only make it more difficult,” Googleplier notes.

“Right, so don’t take your time,” Bim rehashes to Warfstache slowly, as if speaking a completely different language.

“Shut up, you silly goose! Even if I did take my sweet time, we’d all be just fine. I know all of Dark’s tricks,” Warfstache winks and lifts a hand to snap, preparing to disappear.

The Host must have a word with Warfstache before he meets Darkiplier.

“Alright, old chap, catch me outside his door, then,” Warfstache grins, then snaps his fingers and vanishes. The Host follows shortly.

Dr. Iplier sighed, then tucked his face into his hands. “We are so screwed.”

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

It was quiet at first. Hollow.

He only half-remembered how he had gotten here- something with Warfstache and Markiplier- and the rest was being pushed away by the knowledge of where he was. He knew the thrumming beginning behind his ears wasn’t real, but the fear bucked in in his blood anyway.

He turned to face the doorway he had come through, but the threshold had disappeared. He turned back around again, and the void began to splinter. Cracks, like fissures in the ground, snaked through the fabric of reality with the sound of breaking glass, light peeking through each crevice. Then the black mirror shattered, and all that was left was the mansion.

A part of him was glad to be back. That part was almost crushed by the dread and guilt that swamped him a moment later. He clutched at his head and closed his eyes. He needed to calm down if he wanted to have a sliver of a chance in here.

The house was shaking. That thrumming noise sourced at his feet, and he gave the floorboards an experimental kick. 

Then he noticed his aura. Red and green and blue, like he was used to, but sharper, thicker. This wasn’t who he was- the face in the mirror was what he used to look like. Which made sense, considering that was the colonel’s bumbling laughter he could hear in the next room. 

Where did he get dropped? Somewhere in the beginning? After the first death? Or at the very end?

He peered again in the mirror to his right, and moved forward to confirm his answer. The district attorney’s soul stared back at him in his own eyes. The house shook again, and the mirror shattered completely, glass pieces falling from the frame.

He glanced down at one shard with trepidation, and saw blue. The one next to it reflected red. Another pitch black. This was it. This was the end. He was splitting. The house rumbled again, longer this time, shaking ceiling dust to the floor.

_ We have to get out of here. _

That wasn’t him. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. She spoke again.

_ The house doesn’t have a spirit to keep it together, _ it yelled, panicked,  _ it will fall apart with us inside- we have to leave! _

No, no, they couldn’t leave- his spirit wasn’t finished forming yet- and there were still other people-

No. He growled, the sound echoing three times over. He couldn’t lose himself to the illusion. This wasn’t where he was, this wasn’t  _ who _ he was anymore, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t-

_ Damien, get your head out of your ass and listen to me! _

His head snapped up, frantic gaze meeting her frenetic one.

_ Did you hear what I said? We have to get out! _

The house rattled and shook. Damien blinked once, twice, his hands flying to his temples. “No, no, I’m not here, I can’t be, I’m- ”

_ For fuck’s sake, Damien, we don’t have time for this! _

“I- ” he stopped short, and in an instant his thoughts blanked, then went to a little girl, sipping wine and looking up at him, so  _ happy _ \- she wasn’t real. That wasn’t real. 

Oh, for- it didn’t matter what was real-

**We can’t leave without them.**

_ We don’t have any time!  _ She glanced furtively at the threshold behind her, where the colonel’s laughter still echoed.  _ I… we have to trust that they can take care of themselves. Now come on- it’s not much longer! _

**I’m not leaving without them.**

_ You-  _ She hesitated, glanced again behind her shoulder.  _ God, you’re stubborn. You know there’s only one way to do this. You know it won’t be pleasant. _

**We have to save them.**

She slowly nodded.  _ Alright, fine. I’ll get Will, you get the detective. Don’t try and be the hero, Damien. If he’s too far gone, just leave him. _

**Only if you promise the same.**

She swallowed, steeled herself, then looked him straight in the eye.  _ I promise, _ she lied.  _ Now go. Hurry. _

Getting to the detective wasn’t hard since he hadn’t died far from where the DA had. Nevertheless, climbing a cracking staircase with a rattling banister was still unnerving. 

The detective was sitting with his back against the wall, straight across from the top of the stairs. He had only just been revived, barely able to catch the house’s curse before the entity left its vessel. The detective was holding his gut, not bleeding anymore but probably in a hell of a lot of pain from being brought back to life- especially with the bullet still inside of him.

“Damien… that’s you there?” He gurgled around the blood in his mouth. “I can see through you. W-what’s happening…?”

**I’m dead. That’s not the problem right now, the house is crumbling,** Damien swallowed. As a spirit himself, he could see straight through the detective’s body to his spirit. **I… you seem… look, we need to go, now. Can you move?**

“What, with this ginormous hole in my stomach?” the detective chuckled, lifting his hand, sopping with blood. He grunted, shifted his legs a bit. “Yeah, why not.”

**We have maybe ten minutes before the whole house comes down,** Damien said, glancing at the roof. 

The house’s entity hadn’t fully disappeared from the structure, but it was slowly fading, likely seeping into Damien and Celine as he spoke. He could see its color in the walls, in the ceiling and floor. It was surreal, seeing reality and the spirit world at the same time, and Damien was certain if he had a physical head, it would be aching.

As it was, he only had his spirit and a bit of hope. 

**Do you think you can make it to the door in that time?**

“If you think I’m getting down those stairs using a verb other than ‘tumble’, you’re in for a big ol’ let-down, bud,” the detective pointed out, then glanced down at himself. “On the other hand, I just survived a gunshot to the abdomen. If I survive those stairs, there’s no way I’m letting myself just get crushed to death by a house, like some sort of pansy.”

**Um, sure. Okay, good. I can’t physically help you move from here, just- if you run into trouble, shout for Celine,** Damien rushed through clenched teeth.

“What, that seer woman? What can she do that you- hey! Damn- where are you going!” His voice echoed down the corridor, but Damien didn’t respond, too busy running in the other direction.

**Got to be around here somewhere,** he muttered, flinging doors open with a flick of his wrist and peering through thresholds as quickly as possible.  **I know you’re still here- where are you?**

Eventually, after a long, fruitless search, he ended up at the base of the stairs of the wine cellar. The door wasn’t difficult to open, but the sight was a little hard to take in.

Mark lay in the middle of the room, facing the wall to his right. He was deathly still, but Damien could still see the shuddering waves of his aura.

**Mark,** he breathed a sigh of relief so large it almost hurt to inhale afterwards and kneeled at his friend’s side.  **You- oh, thank god, you’re alive. Can you- can you move?**

There was no response. Not even a blink. But his aura shifted, flickering out of sight briefly before shining brighter.

**Alright, no moving, no talking,** Damien stopped, suddenly taking note of his surroundings. **…Mark, why are you down here? How did you-**

Mark’s finger twitched, and his eyes opened, brown and glossy. What did-? 

Oh. The house knew. Mark had lived under the house’s curse for years, meaning… The spirit in the house saw everything, but most importantly, saw it through Mark’s eyes. 

Damien swallowed, then took a deep breath and summoned forward all the pieces of himself that had merged with the house’s spirit. Then he cupped Mark’s face in his hands, searching through his essence for traces of the curse-

_ “Come on down, we’ll just play a little game-” _

_ // He doesn’t deserve happiness- // _

_ Holding a revolver, looking down the barrel- _

_ -click- _

_ // Luck is on your side, luck is on your side, luck is on my side- // _

_ Passing the gun to him, a smile of poisonous comfort- _

_ Staring into the eye of the barrel, imagining it as the hole in his head, bracing for the pain- _

_ -BANG- _

_ // You’ve done it, you’ve done it, I’ve done it- // _

_ In the spirit world, grinning, then back to reality, where- _

_ Pain, old and new, familiar and so so different- _

_ Dragged up the stairs, dropped from the top, and left- _

_ // Wait a little longer, wait a little longer, I can wait a little longer- // _

_ Dragged to the wine cellar, seeing his face crumpled and grief-stricken- _

_ Hearing the door close after him, trying to move, trying to move- _

_ // You can move, you can move, I can’t move-! // _

_ Waiting, waiting, hearing shouts, hearing thunder, hearing death- _

_ // Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty- // _

_ Wanting to back out, wanting to die, choosing death over life- _

_ //  _ **_Why must we choose in life?_ ** _ // _

Damien was shoved out of the memory without his volition. He stumbled backward, and his back hit the ground, next to Mark’s motionless body. He turned his head and looked into Mark’s gaze, almost hearing the plea on his breath.

**I’m getting us out of here,** he sobbed to his friend,  **I’m getting you out.**

Mark’s eyes moved. Slowly, they looked to the ground, then to the ceiling. A stand-in for shaking his head.

**I’m not giving you a choice,** Damien composed himself, and rose to a sitting position. **If you cooperate, this’ll go a lot easier- and I might just be able to lift that curse-**

The eyes shook faster, and something coiled in Damien’s gut. 

**You’d rather die,** he said, then harder,  **Or if not, you want to live with that curse? The one that’s made you into a- a goddamn… fuck, why?**

Mark muttered the last word Damien would ever hear him say: “Penance.”

**You…** Damien sat back on his heels, mouth agape.  **You self-serving bastard!**

Mark attempted to gesture to the upstairs, but Damien turned his head away to the wall, glaring at the cement. Then he turned it on Mark.

**Fuck everyone else!** He exploded.  **_I_ ** **still care about you- isn’t that enough!?**

It wasn’t. They both knew it. Mark may have been a jerk at times, and a complete asshole at others, but he had always cared about his friends- all of his friends. It had been the one thing the house had managed to take away from him. The loss of his character.

**I swear, if you imply that any of us are better off without you, I will find your gun and shoot you again.** Damien took a deep breath and stood, looking down at his friend.  **I don’t care what you think. I’m saving you whether you like it or not. Now brace yourself- this might itch.**

Transporting him wasn’t as easy as a finger snap, but it wasn’t beyond him, either. He didn’t have the power to get him anywhere near the front door, but that wasn’t what he was aiming for. He only just got him to the center of the entrance hall before his power cut out.

_Damien, I- what the_ ** _hell_** _do you think you’re doing!_ Celine was suddenly livid, angrier than Damien had ever seen her before. Angrier than when the house had ‘revealed’ to them that everything that had happened was Mark’s fault. _Why have you brought_ ** _him_** _here?_

**I’m taking him.**

_ For god’s sake, Damien- I asked the redundant question for you to rehash your stupidity, not for a straight answer!  _ She yelled, glaring at her brother and pointing at Mark’s body.  _ We are leaving him behind to rot in the hell he put himself in! Now get him out of here before I shove him out. _

“Oh, is that Mark? You can come up now, Mark, the joke’s finished, I’ve seen between the lines,” William huffed behind Celine, grabbing his suspender straps. Damien immediately felt himself suppress a surge of contempt for the colonel. “You can get on up, now.”

_ He’s not getting up, Will,  _ Celine murmured over her shoulder.

**Like hell he isn’t,** Damien snarled back.

Before Celine could bite back a retort, there was a loud crash as the detective came tumbling down the staircase. His foot got caught on the banister about half-way down, but with a little wiggling, he was able to roll down the last half.

“That, was hell,” he panted, holding his stomach and looking at everyone in turn, “I see we’ve got the group back together.” Then he glanced up, saw the colonel, and all semblance of pain in his expression was replaced with contempt. “What the hell is he doing here?”

**Alright, let it go. We all brought people we’d rather not save, let’s just get this done,** Damien growled, turning to Celine.  **Is the house ready?**

_ It’s still draining from the mansion,  _ she grunted, visibly mad but at least recognizing that they didn’t have enough time to fight about anything anymore.  _ Any moment now, he’ll finish funneling into us, and the house will collapse. If we’re going to do this right… we’ll need to stretch a few seconds to create the pocket dimension, and then a few more for the conversion. _

**I’ll take the conversions. You take care of the dimension.**

_ And where do we put it?  _ Celine’s foot began to tap, a clear sign of her anxiety.  _ We can’t just leave ourselves out in the middle of unreality, nowhere to cling to the real world. _

**I’ll take care of it, sis, just tell me when you need me to step in.**

She nodded, looking up at the ceiling irritatedly.  _ I’m not usually one for the lovey-dovey stuff, but I… Damien, if we don’t make it out of this- _

**We will,** he spoke over her,  **We will.**

_ Right, here it comes, get ready. _

**See you on the other side. Er, y’know. Literally.**

_ Oh, shut- _

Everything went dark. The loud crashing they had been yelling over had disappeared in an instant, and within the blink of an eye, time froze. The mansion began to reappear in swathes of color and light, but this time there were only four occupants in the room.

The colonel didn’t hesitate to examine his new surroundings- how the walls bent like string in water, or how his own hands seemed poorly defined. The detective glanced around quickly, taking note of his surroundings- eyes hesitating on the exits- then kept his gaze tied to the colonel, watching his every move.

Mark wasn’t lying on the ground anymore, but rather sitting in a bland wooden chair with a meager consolation cushion. He still wasn’t responsive, his head lolling to the side as he stared blankly at Damien.

In an instant, the colonel disappeared and reappeared in front of Damien, standing at attention. “This has got to be the  _ coolest _ dream I have ever had- nothing like any other lucid dream I’ve had.”

**This isn’t a dream.** Damien took a deep breath and swallowed nervously.  **Alright, all of you, listen closely. We are in an In-between state right now, a bridge heading out of reality. Once we leave reality, you won’t be able to keep all of… yourselves. I need you to take a moment and think, think very hard, of who you are and the person you strive to be. I’ll get to each of you, one by one, to convert you. Just… stay calm, keep breathing. And remember who you are.**

He gestured to the colonel, who stepped forward excitedly.

**Alright, Will, you’re first. Are you doing as I said?**

“Ooh, so does this make me your guinea pig? Do I have to say last words before I die?” he asked, tapping his chin. “Oh, wait! After I wake up, remind me to congratulate you on the whole murder mystery joke, eh? That was a  _ good _ one!”

Damien grimaced.  **I’m taking that as a yes. Concentrate, Will, I’m starting.**

“Concentrate on what?” the colonel laughed.

His laughter was cut short, mid-inhale, as the change occurred. His outfit faded rapidly as though time was speeding up, his moustache tinged pink then completely dyed itself the atrocious color, and his hair followed suit. Then he started laughing again, as if being tickled.

**It’s supposed to hurt,** Damien muttered to himself in a worried tone.  **Will?**

“It’s Wilford now, I believe,” Wilford chuckled, moving to straighten his bowtie but actually unbalancing it. “Wilford Warfstache. Pain extraordinaire!”

Damien swallowed the bile rising in his throat and snapped his fingers. Wilford disappeared instantly, Damien having sent him off to where Celine was forming her pocket dimension. With how he turned out, perhaps Damien should’ve done the colonel last. Celine was going to kill her brother for this.

**Right. Detective, are you ready?**

“Hey, woah, wait a minute here!” He laughed nervously, trying to scoot backwards and press on his stomach at the same time. “You said this  _ hurts _ ?”

**I’m sorry,** Damien swallowed.  **Just concentrate on yourself and who you try to be. I’ll make it quick.**

“Sounds suspiciously like you’re killing me,” the detective said seriously. “Look, I-I get it if I have to die. But- if we’re getting remade… you think I can choose what I get remade into?”

**You would rather not keep your own personality?** Damien frowned.  **You want to become someone else?**

“I want to get back at that bastard who killed me- who killed Mark.” The detective shook his head, his eyes wild with fervor. “I want to become something strong, something that knows the monster that man is. I- well hell, I just want this mystery solved and justice served, once and for all.”

**That’s too specific,** Damien shook his head, frowning.  **This stuff is like genie magic- if you don’t give it something it can use, it’ll twist you against yourself. For all we know, focusing on Will might just turn you into him.**

“Well, then, that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” the detective huffed, shifting on the ground. “Alright, I’m ready now. Make it quick.”

**I-I really don’t think-**

“Do it, man!”

He did. This time screams punctured the air, causing the scenery mosaic to blot, the sound cutting through the canvas. The only thing that remained the same of the man after the transformation were his suit jacket and pants. He emerged from his pain with a stiff chuckle, but it wasn’t long until he doubled over.

**Shit. I knew something would go wrong,** Damien panicked, kneeling down to head-level of the detective.

**_The Author,_ ** the man beneath his hands insisted.  **_Call me the Author._ **

**You’re not ready yet,** Damien shook his head, watching as the Author’s face shifted and bended like the walls of Damien’s painted scenery.  **You fought it, I can’t- we have to make you something on the other side, something to fix you. Hang tight, okay? I’ll fix this.**

He snapped his fingers, and the Author disappeared as well. Already, Damien’s mind was racing. If he was to create something to help stabilize him, he had to do it once he met with Celine, while everything was still being converted. Otherwise he wouldn’t have the energy.

The ensuing silence from the Author’s absence suddenly struck Damien in the gut. Mark was still in his chair, looking blankly into space. Damien moved to his line of sight, but Mark’s eyes moved up to look at the ceiling instead.

**You don’t want to do this, I get it,** Damien sighed.  **But you’re the most important one here; you’ve got two jobs. And if you want the others to survive, you’re gonna have to cooperate.**

Both of Mark’s middle fingers twitched, and Damien took a deep breath and closed his eyes, suppressing a scream. Once he calmed himself down, he sat in front of Mark and held his face in his hands, drawing Mark’s gaze to his own.

**Listen to me, because this is going to be difficult. This place we’re all going to, it requires a tether to the real world. Somewhere to link us to reality so that we can eventually come back through. Understand? We’re going to use your body as that tether.**

Mark began to shake minutely, his cheeks quivering under Damien’s fingers. Damien held on more tightly.

**Listen to me, please. I feel like I owe you an explanation, at the least. In a few moments, I’m going to separate your body from your mind. I’m going to convert your mind, and leave your body behind. Just like I did for the others.**

Mark blinked rapidly at him, his fingers twitching frantically.

**I-I know I can’t understand any questions you might have, so I’ll try and cover the basics. Without your mind, your body will have to draw inspiration from an outside source to function- the pocket dimension Celine’s building right now will be a template for your body’s new personality. It will create its own past based on that template, so it won’t have any memories of us, or you. It will hurt, yes, but I can promise I’ll make it as quick as possible.**

There was a beat of silence, then Mark blinked once. Damien almost felt himself collapse in relief.

**There’s… there’s one more thing. Your body… it’s tethered to the curse. To be able to use your body as a connection to reality, we’ll have to shift that curse to your mind. Meaning that, even inside the pocket dimension, you won’t be able to live like the rest of us do, won’t be able to function. Any form you take will be affected by the curse, debilitating you for the rest of your life.**

He blinked again, and Damien got the sinking feeling he wasn’t even paying attention anymore, just nodding and playing along. He shoved the thought away harshly.

**Alright. First I’m going to separate your body from your mind. Quick and easy, except for the curse part. Brace yourself, this is gonna hurt.**

Unexpectedly, a scream erupted as soon as Damien began. At first, he thought it was coming from Mark, but his mouth was clamped shut. Then he realized- it was echoing through the worlds. Mark’s real body couldn’t scream either, but with both of them trying, it had branched out between the dimensions. It was piercing and terrifying and horrible and Damien resisted the urge to break the spell and clamp his hands over his ears.

But then finally, finally Mark’s outline became blurry and unfocused, and he began to flicker, like a tv signal getting interference. A few moments later, and he had the same aura as Damien, but shifting in color. He hadn’t been simplified- converted- yet, and Damien took a moment to adore the rainbow of colors surrounding him.

**Right. Good. You made it through that. The next part’s a bit trickier. Converting the mind of someone whose body we will inhabit is a bit more difficult, since there have to be protections put into place to make sure you don’t instinctively take over the mind. So just… remember to breathe, okay? And don’t forget who you are. Remember who you are, Mark.**

Damien closed his eyes and prayed to himself, whispering,  **Please remember.** Then he began.

Mark couldn’t make a sound this time around. That was the worst part, definitely worse than the colonel’s laughing or the detective’s screaming. The look of agony on his face, as Damien did this to him, was almost more than he could bear. It was almost more than Mark could bear either, as Damien felt him slowly slipping.

Paralyzed with fear, Damien did the only thing he could think of to ground him to this reality.

**Mark? Mark, can you hear me? It- It’s me, Damien? I’m here. I’m really here, actually here. You’re here, Mark, just… just keep breathing. R-remember who you are.**

**Remember the first time we met. Remember the way the pavement in front of our houses that sparkled after it rained. Remember inviting Will and I over for ice cream everyday in the godawful, hot summers. Remember graduation, both times, when we all got drunk during the ceremony and Will stripped down to his tights and you flipped off the entire audience and then I fainted on the principal? Remember… god, remember all those years you spent by yourself, disconnected from everyone but yourself. The white roses at Celine’s wedding. The black ones at your dad’s funeral. How you felt when you realized Celine and the colonel, under your own roof… Mark, please,** **_remember_ ** **…**

Then it was over. Mark still sat there, like nothing had changed, but his aura had dulled, practically disappeared. And yet, for all that it had took, no one would ever know how much of his personality stayed with him.

Damien took a shuddering breath, wiped the tears from his eyes, and gently took Mark’s hand, feeling him disappear beneath his skin. Damien glanced accordingly at his shadow, significantly shorter than him and splayed out as if sitting down.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Damien transported them both to the pocket dimension, and the In-between crumbled behind him.

Celine was waiting for them at the entrance hall inside the replicated mansion. She was seething and panting, but she was still building the dimension and likely didn’t have any extra energy to speak. So Damien walked over to her and prepared for the worst reaction of his life.

**Put us in Mark,** he demanded, and watched her face contort.  **I’ve separated his body from the curse and his mind from his body. He’s not Mark anymore. But he is the only live body close enough to use.**

She glared at him, then gestured with her hands, trying to mime a falling building.

**I placed him in the middle of the entryway, just below the skylight,** Damien said, his voice falling flat and monotone, as if reciting from a book.  **Assuming that there’s no discrepancies, the only thing that could hit him would be a few shards of glass. It’s perfectly safe. Do it.**

He didn’t give her any time to respond, throwing over his shoulder as he passed by,  **I have things I need to do. Keep building until I get back.**

The first item at hand: getting Mark safely in a room where no one would look for him. The pocket dimension was roughly based off of the mansion, though there were misplaced hallways and extra rooms placed wildly throughout. Painstakingly slowly, Damien made his way to the very back of the building, and found the perfect place: the poker room.

**You may not be able to play anymore, but with some mental projection, you can change it however you like,** Damien snapped his fingers, forming a bed where Mark appeared. In the poker room. With another snap, several machines appeared beside the bed, hooked up to Mark. 

**To regulate your pain,** he explained, swallowing something grief-shaped in his throat.  **I’ll come back for you. I-I’ll visit you. I promise.**

The door shut with a click and a lock, and Damien wasted no time in navigating his way to the only other place he sensed people. 

The room turned out to be a fancy conference room, wherein the col- Wilford and the Author were sitting at far ends of the table. They were sitting stock still, not blinking, not even breathing. Celine had probably frozen both of them in time to help her focus- something that made Damien’s job even easier. He grabbed hold of the Author, ignoring the burn of raw whatever-the-hell-he-was against his skin, and pulled him out of the room.

Right. Where do you put someone who can’t stabilize in unreality to stabilize them?

_ He got corrupted in the conversion, didn’t he?  _ Celine called out from the other room, which Damien entered. She looked more relaxed- she was probably close to finishing.  _ Pick one of the rooms. Convert it to a personality chamber. _

**I- what- no! Not only is that only unsubstantiated, untested** **_theory_ ** **, it’ll affect the physics of all of our existences, I can’t-**

_ For once in your goddamn life, would you fuck all with the consequences and just do as I say? _

**I did that when you told me possessing the DA would help us, and look where it’s landed us!** Damien shouted, but at a glance at her expression, it was clear it was to no avail.

They both knew Celine’s option was the only option, and time was running out to fix the Author. Despite being frozen in time, he looked like he was melting in Damien’s grip, and the spirit made a quick decision. 

**I hope you know what you’re doing,** he muttered to her, and headed to the wine cellar, stopping just short of entering.

Converting the room for the purpose of what they wanted was incredibly complex, and Damien had little time to do it. But the negative energy already residing in the place made it easier. He cut as many corners as he could, but every attempt he made to build something shriveled up and popped out of existence.

“Damien’s trying to create based on real world physics,” the Author recited suddenly, staring at him with an impossibly glossy stare. “Building things that aren’t there.”

**I… what?** Damien paused, panting. He stared into the entrance of the room.  **What do you suggest?**

“Build from unreality,” the Author gestured dramatically. “Take the unreal and  _ change _ it.”

**Unreal…** Damien muttered, then,  **Author, you’re a genius. Start from the beginning. If I take something noncorporeal, like an idea, or a feeling- or a personality, I make that the basis of our existence. Assuming that much would only need a small rule to make it real, and to impose that rule, all I need to do is create an environment where personality is crucial to survival.**

“And his epiphany came as epiphanies often do- just in the nick of time,” the Author laughed, falling limp in Damien’s arms.

**Alright, alright,** Damien swallowed, closing his eyes and concentrating, building blindly as he spoke.  **Personality is crucial to survival. Personality is crucial to survival. What brings out personality? What shows personality? A mirror. A cracked mirror, to show all the facets, and… and… fear. Fear brings out the personality, the mirror reflects it, solidifies it.**

Then, with an unceremonial cry of hope, Damien wrenched open the door to the wine cellar and shoved the Author inside. That occurred about the same time that the entire place shook, indicating the sever from reality. Damien held his breath, as if exhaling would bring the whole dimension tumbling down. But Celine’s work was solid. It held even as Damien sprinted down the corridors to the main entryway.

**Celine?**

_ Damien! _

The relief in her tone was palpable, while Damien almost choked on his. Being spirits, they didn’t have the capability to hug- as brother and sister, they tried anyway, hovering just out of reach of each other.

_ You are an idiot and a complete bastard. _

**Yeah,** Damien laughed,  **I love you too.**

_ No, really, I can’t believe you pulled a stunt like that,  _ she scoffed and glared, stepping back to get a good look at him.  _ The house is still coming through, can you feel it? _

**Do you think it knows we’re trapping it in Mark’s brain?**

_ I don’t know, but wish  _ **_I_ ** _ didn’t know, myself.  _ Celine grumbled, then tilted her head.  _ Though it won’t matter after a while. The longer we stay in here, the more like Mark we’ll start to look. _

**I hate to say it, but that’s probably an improvement for the other guys,** Damien winced, looking down at his own hands, rough and calloused and slightly bigger than he remembered.  **I don’t know if I can say that about myself. I rather liked my face.**

_ I did, too. You looked a lot like dad,  _ Celine spoke briefly, her expression blank.  _ Once the house gets back, we’ll be shoved into the same body again, and we’ll both look like Mark. _

**I… god, why did you tell me to make a personality chamber, of all things?** Damien asked, avoiding her gaze.  **Knowing you, I thought you would rather leave him do die. It changes everything. It makes even** **_existing_ ** **a chore.**

_ We aren’t the only ones to have to live like this,  _ Celine mentioned, frowning,  _ In fact, a lot of spirits who refuse to pass on take up residence in their relatives’ bodies. _

**Ah, yes, so we’re just about as good as the common ghost.**

_ That sounds like wounded pride,  _ Celine frowned.  _ What does it matter, if we live like ghosts? _

**Look, obviously our situation was a bit different from those spirits,** Damien insisted,  **meaning there was a chance this could’ve ended up differently. …The fact that it didn’t is my fault. I should’ve done more. I-I don’t mean to blame you.**

_ The detective’s conversion was corrupted,  _ Celine rolled her eyes,  _ Shut your god complex up and quit blaming yourself. _

**It was corrupted because I didn’t discourage what he did,** Damien insisted,  **He wanted to become a medium for revenge, and I didn’t convince him to do otherwise.**

_ Can nobody make a decision without you sticking your hands in it? _ Celine scoffed, turning to him. Upon seeing his desolate expression, she pressed angrily,  _ He did what he wanted, so let it be! _

**You’re one to talk,** Damien spat back,  **Shoving yourself into our problems and giving the house something willing to be possessed!**

_ Wha- that was not my choice! _

**No, but you hardly fought it!**

_ What are you trying to say? _

**You lived in that house for years!** Damien exploded, his aura burning thick.  **You lived with Mark and Will and you** **_knew_ ** **something was wrong with that house, you** **_knew_ ** **! That’s why you picked up this dark arts shit, that’s why you came back to the house, because instead of doing the sensible thing and getting out of a bad situation, you wanted to get in deeper!**

_ It wasn’t my fault!  _ She yelled back, her aura crackling menacingly.  _ The house, it- _

**The house had no part in it!** Damien seethed, his own aura growing larger and larger.  **You didn’t love Mark, maybe never did! But instead of telling him that, you ran off with another man!**

_ William was my- _

**Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare say you loved him, because I know you didn’t! I can feel it whenever we get near him- you feel just as trapped in his presence as you did in Mark’s. He was an out to you, a way to escape a ruined marriage. It wasn’t** **_love_ ** **, it was a release.**

_ Shut up!  _ Celine screamed. Her aura exploded outward, then shrank until it was very, very thin. She fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself.  _ It’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true… _

**It’s the only thing you have left. The only things that define you now are your manipulations, your need for escape, and your false love,** Damien murmured, kneeling in front of her. His face softened, and he reached out, his hand hovering by her face.  **I’m sorry, Celine. I’m so sorry.**

_ Don’t talk to me like you’re any better,  _ Celine muttered softly, glaring wearily up at her brother.  _ Don’t think I didn’t see what you dragged in here behind you. _

Damien froze. He swallowed, and straightened up, clutching his cane tightly between his hands.  **I did what I had to.**

_ No. You didn’t need to make a copy of him,  _ she gained vigor, her glare hardening.  _ You could’ve let his mind be rewritten, ended the curse, and let him die. I wouldn’t doubt if he had had the same idea. He fought you, fought against this, didn’t he? _

**He needn’t have tried, the damn fool!** Damien slammed the bottom of his cane on the floor with a resounding crack.  **He needs to know someone still cares about him.**

_ If you cared about him, you wouldn’t have made him a permanent vegetable, you would’ve let him go,  _ Celine growled.  _ I did love him once, all those years ago, but even I wouldn’t even think of subjecting him to the kind of torture you have. _

**He’s alive,** Damien spat,  **And that’s a good thing, even if you can’t see it!**

_ Of all people,  _ Celine said softly,  _ I hadn’t expected you to be the one to mistake being alive with living. _

Damien reeled as if struck. His aura, which had grown inches thicker during his yelling, suddenly shriveled into itself, thinning to a silky blue veil. He put a hand to his face and leaned his back against the nearest wall. Slowly, he sank down the floor, at eye level with his sister, who was still on her knees.

**I don’t want to re-form as that… that** **_thing_ ** **,** Damien muttered to his shoes.  **Something tells me the house will be delegating our positions on the inside, and I can’t imagine it’ll find much use in me. I… I’m afraid.**

_ You’re still human,  _ Celine returned, her voice the same softness, gentle.  _ With that, you’ll be able to make the house capable of sympathy and empathy. I… I’ll may need it to be capable of that, given what it can use me for. _

**I won’t let it use you like that,** Damien said sharply, drawing her gaze.  **I promise.**

_ That’s not a promise you can keep, brother,  _ she said sadly. Then her head snapped to the ceiling in alarm.  _ It’s almost here. Damien, I… I need a favor. _

Celine never asked him for favors. Never asked anyone, ever. She was the person other people went to for favors, period.

**Anything.**

_ If Mark ever wakes up,  _ she began, tears pooling in her eyes,  _ Tell him what happened wasn’t- wasn’t on purpose. Wasn’t planned. _

Damien stared for a moment, a savage part of him insisting it may not have been planned  _ at first _ . He ignored that thought and nodded slowly.  **Right. Of course. Just- stay safe in there, alright?**

_ Yes, yes, you too, _ Celine waved him off, brushing away her tears with back of her hand.  _ Here we go. _

It was an odd feeling, combining spirits with a supernatural entity as a sort of ethereal superglue. It had a sucking feeling on the skin, but a compression on the inside. It also happened to hurt like hell.

**No, please, please, no, don’t shove me down there, don’t-**

No, it didn’t. It  _ wouldn’t _ , not this time around. This… this was an illusion, it wasn’t real. They had shoved him in here, either in an attempt to tear him apart or put him back together.

Well, they definitely weren’t going to get what they booked.

In a flurry of anger, he snatched himself out of existence, pausing the illusion, freezing it in time. Then he took Celine and the house and held them in the palm of each hand, feeling like a god. 

He crushed his right hand into a fist, slathering the contents on the inside of his suit pant pocket. His left hand curled gently, folding the spirit kindly and stashing her away as well.

He turned around, conjured the door, and stepped out into the dreamscape hallway. He looked both ways, then started off to the right with intense vigor.

The mirrors on the walls reflected his blue aura as he passed. They also reflected the blunt snarl on his face.

Someone was in deep shit.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story is in the process of being revised. As of this chapter, all following chapters will show unrevised, unpolished work. Essentially, the next chapters will be posted as a placeholder to keep my drafts, rather than to pose an actual story. The writing quality will inevitably plummet from this point forward. Thank you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding the Egos of Mark Fischbach, or anything related in any way to him, really- just playing in his sandbox for a while!
> 
> Writing Completion: 55%
> 
> Revision Completion: 2%
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to PM me, or leave a comment below!

* * *

 

The mansion had never been easier to navigate.

No part of Darkiplier knew the mansion better than Damien- not even Celine, who had come to memorize each corner and crevice out of spite and contempt. As a result, the spirit wove through hallways and hidden passageways with ease, making record time in arriving at his destination.

Damien froze at the entrance to the room. The door was cracked open, and only one person knew about the contents of this room. Damien pushed his way inside.

Markiplier was in the same position he had always been in, and Damien breathed a great sigh of relief, his thoughts whirling in circles.

The Host appears silently behind him, his voice a whisper in the near-silent room.

“Je-sus,” Damien shudders, stepping forward and turning to face the Host. “Did you have to do that? You could’ve stayed in my line of sight, it would’ve been far less creepy.”

The Host looks at him patiently.

“‘Patiently’? What, am I supposed to go somewhere?” Damien swallows, unnerved at the Host’s unnatural silence. After a moment, he gathers, “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

The Host tilts his head curiously. Certainly it would not have taken Darkiplier in his full form to come to the ultimate conclusion?

“His full… ” Damien trails off, his eyes widening as he glances at Markiplier. He takes a step towards him, almost tripping on the chair by the bed. Dazed, he turns and faces the chair, his voice thick with shaken nerves. “You knew.”

Yes.

“You knew what would happen to me, by shoving Darkiplier in the wine cellar,” Damien says, feeling oddly disconnected and far away. He slowly turns to face the Host. “You saw this outcome. You… you made it happen?”

Yes.

“But you didn’t- you weren’t the one who put him in there,” Damien shakes his head slowly, the pieces falling into place slower than molasses. “Will- Will came to me, he told me- told me- ”

…Damien does not remember the circumstances leading up to his imprisonment in the wine cellar?

“It’s fuzzy,” Damien says nervously, starting to get the idea that the Host wasn’t there on genial terms. “I remember Will, I remember something about Mark- h-he- ”

Warfstache told Darkiplier that Markiplier was gone.

“I… I was so shocked that he  _ knew _ , I wasn’t thinking straight, I panicked, didn’t check to see where we were going- not until he shoved me into the wine cellar,” Damien recalls bit by bit, then flinches. 

“Him,” he corrects himself, “Shoved  _ him _ into the wine cellar.”

He looks over at Markiplier, sitting in the exact same position he has been for as long as Damien has known him like this. It is vague in his mind, but he can remember breaking past Celine, telling the House to take them here. He remembers sitting in that chair, holding… holding the bullet. And to his right, standing with the closest thing to emotion he had ever seen from the persona… 

“You were the  _ only _ one who knew,” Damien finally realizes, spinning to face the Host, who has come several steps closer during Damien’s musings. “You- you told Warfstache about Markiplier. You told him so he could lure Darkiplier to the wine cellar, and bring me out.”

It is the best course of action. The one with the highest probability of success.

“You want me to cure Mark,” Damien puzzles out. He can’t help but glance at Markiplier sadly. “What do you think I can do that the others can’t?”

Damien is human, perhaps the only piece of humanity left in Darkiplier.

“Yes, yes, I… I remember you saying that,” Damien frowns. “What about it?”

As the original mansion began to crumble, Damien and Celine concocted a plan to save the remaining survivors in the house. Damien convinced Celine it was the best plan of action.

Damien devised a system of conversion of human minds, a feat which had never been completed until that moment. A blaze of genius, sparked by desperation to save the people he had drawn close to.

It was Damien who was able to formulate and create a room to stabilize converted minds, restructuring and saving the Author. Once more, Damien’s instinct to protect those close to him had spawned a miracle of events.

In all possible outcomes, Darkiplier is the only persona capable of saving Mark from his affliction. However, this is not primarily due to the presence of Celine nor the entity of the house.

Darkiplier’s drive to save comes from Damien. Therefore, the fastest way to form a plan to save Mark would be to drive Damien to the point of desperation.

“Wait, wait. You’re saying I’m the reason Darkiplier is the only one who can save Mark?” Damien stops him, visibly trying to pull everything together in his mind. “Then what about Antisepticeye?”

…The Host is not aware of Darkiplier’s plan with Antisepticeye.

“You… ” Damien swallows, staring at the Host. He seems torn for a moment, then abruptly makes a decision. “If I tell you what his plan is, can you tell me if it’ll work?”

The Host has read the script. If the possibility for a positive outcome exists, it will become clear upon the suggestion.

“Right, then, I’m taking that cryptic-ass answer as a yes,” Damien steels himself, taking a deep breath. “God, I hope they don’t kill me for this- the main idea with befriending Antisepticeye was to kill him.”

That seems within reasonable intentions of Darkiplier.

“I’m not finished,” Damien grimaces. “See, they thought since Antisepticeye didn’t seem very comfortable with his living arrangements, and Mark was dying, that they could just… swap places.”

Damien is suggesting Darkiplier is able to infiltrate Jack’s mind, while Antisepticeye infiltrates Mark’s mind.

“Exactly,” Damien deflates with a sigh, dropping into the seat behind him. “I mean, all the theory and knowledge you pick up from this sort of stuff- it suggests it  _ might _ be possible. The only reason I didn’t throw a glitch fit in the back of their mind while they met with Antisepticeye is because I thought there might’ve been a chance we could’ve taken the rest of Mark’s personas with us.”

Impossible.

“Are you sure?” Damien shoots up, his eyes flickering. “Because if it works, it’s an entirely plausible escape- ”

It would not be possible with Darkiplier, never mind the rest of Mark’s personas.

Damien falls silent, dropping his hand mid-gesture and falling back into the seat. He leans over his knees, closing his eyes and sighing. “Great.”

…The solution that has been requested of Damien is not exclusive to his own instinct.

Damien stares in confusion. “Yeah, no, buddy, you’re gonna have to be a bit clearer than that.”

Damien has been furloughed to concoct a plan. However, this plan does not have to save all of the personas, merely the ones capable of independence from Mark.

“That excludes Bim, Dr. Iplier, Googleplier, Ed Edgar, and countless others,” Damien frowns, his eyebrows coming together. “That’s basically just you, me, and Will.”

Yes.

“I- I can’t do that,” Damien shakes his head, looking panicked. “That’s not right, that’s not- what right do we have to live, more than they do? They have independent thought, independent personalities- ”

They do not have bodies in the real world.

“What, and you do? Will does?” Damien scoffs, tossing his hands in the air. “Given how fucked up my composition is, you’d have to find a superstitious, really kinky, possibly drugged threesome to get me back to reality!”

The bodies left behind in the mansion survived.

“...What.”

The bodies left-

“I heard you,” Damien says monotone, his gaze pinned to the Host’s unyieldingly blank expression. “They… they survived.”

The Host had expected Damien to know this. However, in light of recent information that Darkiplier chooses to suppress Damien’s consciousness, the Host believes-

“They survived,” Damien says stronger, and the Host falls silent. A hollow rattle escapes Damien’s chest, and soon he is laughing terribly, leaning back in his chair. In an instant, his gaze snaps to Markiplier. “I took their minds, and they survived.”

Damien is not-

“I took their  _ minds! _ ” Damien screams suddenly, the noise overpowering the beeps of the machinery around them. “I stole their minds to save them because- because they were going to die in that rubble!”

The bodies left-

“I get it, they’re alive!” Damien snarls, spittle flying from his lips. Tears pool at his eyes and fall one after another in a steady stream. “Do you not have the capability to show the  _ slightest _ bit of emotion?”

Time in the wine cellar convinced the Author that emotions led to his downfall. Restabilization as the Host has further integrated this concept.

“You had to go back in there,” Damien realizes, still panting from his outburst. He swipes a hand down his face. “I-I’m sorry. It couldn’t have been pleasant.”

Darkiplier knew.

“Yes, I’m sure he did,” Damien wipes at his eyes calmly, still trying to maintain his composure.

Damien misunderstands. Darkiplier knew the bodies had survived.

“He… ” Damien’s face contorts again, and he turns and kicks the chair, skidding it across the titanium tile. “God! Can’t even show some basic decency and  _ not _ shove me on the backburner when he finds out our friends are alive!”

They were not Darkiplier’s friends. It is likely that, because Damien believed them to be his friends, Darkiplier believed that Damien would cause an emotional outburst and possibly surface.

“You’re damn right I would’ve had an emotional outburst!” Damien yells, though he is quick to realize that the Host is not the source of his anger. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Is there anything else he’s been doing that he hasn’t told me about?”

Presumably, he has kept his escapades through Mark’s mind a secret.

“No, I- I was there for those,” Damien waves off, pausing to use the hand to brace his forehead. “We act as a virus in his head, and I’m the- the thing that staves off the antibodies. I’m the one who convinces Mark’s mind that we’re not doing him any harm.”

Darkiplier does not need Damien to infiltrate Mark’s mind.

“Look, I just told you- ”

It has been done before.

“With- without me knowing?” Damien swallows, looking at his most anxious. “How?”

The Host is curious. Has Damien ever been outside of the mansion? Exited the dreamscape?

“You mean, have I exited our pocket dimension?” Damien translates, frowning. “No. I- without me in here, there’s no entity holding it stable, it would collapse.”

This is how Darkiplier is able to leave the dreamscape.

“Wait,” Damien holds up a hand, “I don’t understand. Are you saying he leaves a bit of himself behind so he can explore Mark’s mind on his own?”

Precisely. Darkiplier plants one part of his consciousness inside the dreamscape, while simultaneously maintaining a connection with the rest of his form outside of the dreamscape.

“I… but I would know, wouldn’t I? If he only leaves me, I should  _ know _ , I should have some semblance of  _ control _ .”

Mark does not collude with Jack often.

“I- what?” Damien shakes his head. “Hold on a minute- ”

Mark has colluded with Jack a total of two times in the past two years.

“What difference does that make?” Damien grunts, frustrated. “If I’m getting left behind- ”

How many times has Damien seen Antisepticeye?

“Every time we’ve gone to visit him,” Damien replies, shaking his head. “At least, I  _ think _ every time. There may be a few gaps in my memory, if this info dump is teaching me anything.”

How often has Damien seen Antisepticeye?

“I dunno. Three times, all in the space of a month, maybe?”

Mark has colluded with Jack a total of two times in the past two years.

“You- wait.” Damien takes a minute, the realization coming at him from left field. “That means- ”

Damien has not been visiting the real Antisepticeye.

“So- so that’s, what, an illusion?” Damien spits, trying to calm himself before his anger spikes again. “No wonder we can’t swap places with Antisepticeye, he’s not real. Fuck, he dumps me in an illusion and goes frolicking in Mark’s mind, just like that?”

Correct. However, he must also leave a part of himself with you, to ensure you do not regain control.

“Right, right. But- what I don’t understand is, if I’m still in the dreamscape when Darkiplier is out there, how has Mark’s mind not torn him apart by now?”

Mark’s personality has been cultivated using the dreamscape as a template. Mark’s mind should not attack any of his personas who enter it.

“Then why make me believe I have to protect us out there?” Damien poses. “And if his mind is safe for all personas, why don’t the others jump at the chance to control him?”

As for what Darkiplier convinces Damien to believe, the Host is sorely uninformed. However, the Host is certain that none of the other personas believe that Mark’s mind is safe to roam.

“That’s why, then,” Damien chuffs. “I’m in his subconscious. If his subconscious believes that Mark’s mind is unsafe, he won’t accidentally slip up and let the others know that Mark’s mind is free reign.”

Darkiplier does not want the other personas to know about the safety in Mark’s mind, because-

“Because he wants Mark all to himself,” Damien finishes, certain of this conclusion. “He doesn’t technically have a body, after all- I know for certain that the DA’s body was fully converted, meat puppet and all.”

Darkiplier wishes to possess Mark to attain complete freedom.

“Yes, and probably to steal Mark’s followers as well- he’s very cult-ish like that,” Damien taps his chin. “What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me all of this. I mean, I need to come up with a plan to save us, I get it. But some of this stuff is completely irrelevant for any kind of plan.”

The more Damien knows, the more possibilities present themselves.

“Positive outcome possibilities, or negative outcome possibilities?” Damien counters.

The possibilities are fairly evenly spliced.

“Wonderful,” Damien looks back at Mark, frowning. “I’m not happy that you lied to us, whether it was through Will or not. But I can guarantee that Darkiplier will be even more mad about it than me. So I won’t hold it against you.”

Leaving the punishment to the one who can actually deliver.

Damien sighs, looking down at his hands. “Yes, I thought you might notice.”

Normally, Darkiplier’s auras create a secondary aura of static, the entrance point at which the signature high-pitched whistle becomes audible. Damien does not have this secondary aura.

“I don’t have my powers,” Damien interprets, his jaw clenching. “Meaning I don’t have any leverage against the rest of the personas.”

The plan will involve other personas?

“Of course,” Damien nods, ignoring the Host’s perpetual frown and turning to Markiplier. “If we want to save everyone, everyone has to play their part.”

Damien is not required to save-

“Well, y’know, Damien’s gonna do it anyway,” he shrugs, moving forward and clasping Markiplier’s hand in his own. His voice softens, gentle. “I did it once, I can do it again. I promise.”

Several beeps of the machine go by before Damien turns back to the Host. “Alright. First thing’s first: we need to gather up all of the personas we can find. Get them into a room together, come up with a plan.”

Gathering all the personas will be impossible; many are already too faded to be moved, others will be unable to be contained in one form.

“Then get the ones you usually get, and we’ll spread the word after we come up with a plan,” Damien rectifies. “Next: can I count on you to back me up in there? The most I could do against one of them is a sucker punch, and I get the feeling I wouldn’t even get that close if it came down to it.”

The Host will assure Damien’s protection throughout the planning phase.

“Great. Last thing, just for shiggles- what’s the chances of any plan I come up with actually working?”

The Host contemplates this for a moment. The chances are split fairly evenly.

“Awesome, great help,” Damien squints with a sigh. “Then I suppose the only thing left to do is to get going.”

The Host nods, then transports them to the conference room without any more preamble.

* * *

 


End file.
